


Kids that I Once Knew

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Autism, Football Player Liam, M/M, Minor Character Death, University AU, Ziam fic, sad stuff, with a happy ending, ziam smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2013-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 12:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 78,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn longs for home -- <i>Bradford</i>; not this small town that's nothing but University and football and a hospital his mum forces him to volunteer at.  But there's something about this place -- or the boy with the buzz cut and soft eyes and Liam Payne is nothing like Bradford.  Zayn hates that, slowly, he's kind of in love with that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Extended Summary:** And Niall is a all smiles, a geek who just wants to belong; Harry and Louis are a refined definition of 'friends with benefits,' and Zayn's mum wants nothing more than for Zayn to get his life together.
> 
>  **WARNING:** This fic is kind of sad. It touches on Autism and all of the effects it has on not only a child, but family too. I am awful with medical stuff (thanks Lynn for all the help!) and I've made quite a few changes to the British education/sports system. I know there's no such thing as a 'redshirt' player in Europe but I used it for the sake of the fic (and a few other things too). Oh, and the 'Block Party' and 'Breakfast Club' and tons of other things are all aspects of my life growing up in small towns.
> 
> Title is borrowed from a line in "Dead Hearts" by Stars (which I highly recommend you listen to for some of the scenes).
> 
> This fic is very autobiographical for the most part and something I felt the need to write for a long, long time. I am terrified to let people read it but, I hope it helps someone.
> 
> Thanks to **Caitlin, Lynn, and Lea** for this. I wouldn't have finished it without them helping ( _pushing_ ) me along. Sorry, it's so long I have to post two-parts :(
> 
> Dedicated to my nephew, Julian.

Zayn sniffs at the air and his skin turns cold at the scent – _fresh air_.  It’s warm, warm against his face even though his eyes fix on the pewter, almost neon silver sky to find bits of the sun peeking through the heavy clouds.  His tongue flicks over his near-chapped lips and he can still taste the remnants of the last cigarette he snuck away to have at the arse-crack of dawn when Waliyha drug him out of his bed for this.  It’s been nearly two hours since then and he craves another one.

Lately, he’s craving one every three breaths because, fuck, this isn’t _home_.

It’s some small, roundabout town just south of Birmingham and it’s _not_ Bradford.  The skies here are nearly always a sea salt blue, more often grayish-azure and it’s one of those University towns where everyone is born here to die here.  The ones that attend junior school, secondary, even University here just to get hitched, raise a bundle of kids, and own one of those cozy shops in the middle of the village to pass onto the next generation of _‘common town’s people.’_

He hates it.

He wants smog, a heavy feel of music and urban living, graffiti on brick walls, broken down street signs with empty beer bottles wrapped in brown paper bags, and the sweet rapture of the city.  He needs hours under street lights, smoke in his lungs with laughter carrying it outward, the roar of Drake and Bruno Mars at a party, the taste of someone’s drunken lips – bird or bloke, doesn’t matter much these days – against his own, maybe down his neck with a hand in his acid wash jeans.  He craves a lie-in until hours after the sun’s lifted in the sky, the buzz of being young and careless, and Ant and Danny.

Fuck, he misses the _feel_ of Ant and Danny and a middle finger to responsibility.

This place feels like the exact definition of responsibility and he despises every second of it.

Zayn itches at the nape of his neck with dull nails, teeth gripping his bottom lip as he _glares_ at the building in front of him – Midlands Regional Hospital.  His teeth sink in deeper, the pinch not nearly as painful as the fire that glows bluish green like the center of a flame at the pit of his stomach, and he teeters from foot to foot like a nervous six year old – something he hasn’t done since his first day in secondary school with that dodgy haircut, two-sizes too big sweats, and a pair of black-framed glasses on his face.

He inhales that fresh air, the sun clipping through a few of the dense clouds and he glances over his shoulder at the sound of giggling coming from the sleek black SUV behind him.  He narrows his eyes, brow furrowed, and Waliyha’s hanging out of the open backseat window with cat-like eyes and a lifted grin – she looks so much like their mum it’s almost terrifying.

“You’re gonna _suffocate_ here.  ‘s definitely not your scene Z,” she tells him, still giggling and everything about her tone is smug and heavy with sarcasm.

“He’s not,” Safaa growls, peeking her head out as well with those too large lilac eyes and a petulant pout slicking her lips.  “We love you Z!”

Something quirks at the corner of his lips, hands dragging through his already fucked out hair – the kip on the way here did him no favors.  He winks at Safaa and he can’t help this rush of warmth that sets against his body at the sight of his younger sisters.  They’re a little older now, not as small and innocent as he remembers before they left him and Bradford behind, but they’re still very much children with their giggles and teasing and morning-warm Christmas smiles in the middle of March.

“Shut it Wali,” he says, still inching on that grin like it’s capable of breaking under the weight of his teeth.  He clears his throat, tipping his head back, and the look his baba gives him from the front seat of that SUV – self-deprecating and disappointed – settles that cold feeling to his bones again.

“Baba, I – “

“Your mum will bring you home when her shift ends,” he says before Zayn can finish, his voice coiled around something unpleasant.  “For once in your life, try to stay out of trouble.  Or out of the way.”

Zayn blinks at him, pieces of his face falling and he’s not all that shocked, honestly.  This has been Yasser Malik for years now – once they were all out of diapers and capable of doing more than crawl across that beat up carpet in that small brick house back in Bradford – and Zayn knows it’s not meant to be cold, foreign.  It’s just… he doesn’t know.

It’s _distant_ and it makes him long for the man who would draw fake mustaches around Zayn’s mouth with a Sharpie or strum silly tunes on a worn out acoustic guitar while Zayn hummed along.

“Safaa, sit down so we can go,” Yasser demands and Safaa’s pout reforms in wounded tones that ice down that swelling warmth that kept Zayn’s heart at a steady pace.

“See you ‘round _bad boy_ ,” Waliyha teases just before Yasser rolls up the window and Zayn swallows at the sound of tires dragging against the pavement, watching his father’s car disappear into a haze of morning fog.

He turns on his heels slowly, facing that building again that spirals something awful and cold around his stomach.  His teeth pull a little rougher at his lip – he’s waiting to taste blood and whatever else will cleanse his pallet of fresh oxygen and counterfeit normalcy because that’s what this place feels like.

It feels like the best put on he’s ever seen.

Zayn searches his pockets, the ones on his jeans and his denim jacket, for his pack of smokes and, thankfully, he finds them in the breast pocket with a gentle sigh.  He kicks unpleasantly at the small pebbles that line the walkway towards the entrance and maybe he can have one last fag before ducking inside?  Maybe he can text Ant or Danny – probably not because it’s not nearly eight in the morning and those two haven’t seen anything before noon for the past three years – and beg one of them to take the two hour drive to rescue him.

“Fuck,” he mutters under an exhale and closes his eyes tightly – _There’s no place like home_ has no effect here – while his fists ball at his sides.

Waliyha’s right: suddenly breathing has become the hardest thing he’s had to do in years.

**

He looks ridiculous.

The wall-length mirror in the locker room does little to disguise how incredibly daft he looks with this partially wrinkled, lavender-hued uniform shirt – “They’re called _scrubs_ , m’love.  Get used to ‘em,” one of the nurses fussed at him with a welcoming smile that was almost too bright for him as she shoved him toward the lockers – not nearly hidden enough beneath his denim jacket.  His hair is rumpled – still sticky with hair wax and product – from far too many nurses scrubbing their fingers through it and reminding him how much he looks like his mum and his gold-freckled hazel eyes are still vibrant with red from his exhaustion.  He scratches at the thick scruff lining his cheeks and chin, teeth nicking at an almost raw bottom lip.  His fingers flex against the sides of his jeans and he scuffs his combat boots on the just cleaned tile floor just to make a mark.

Zayn yawns loudly, rubbing at his eyes, and fuck he needs a good kip and some black coffee – preferably in that order with a cigarette attached.  He toys with the stupid laminated name badge that hangs from the pocket of his jacket – _MALIK, ZAYN J._ – and, honestly, could they have not picked any other color shirt to represent the people working on the pediatric floor of this dump?

It’s not actually a dump.  It’s small and new and everything smells so sterile that Zayn feels filthy just strolling through the halls.

“Morning sunshine.  You look quite _sharp_ in your uniform.”

Something pulls at the corners of his mouth, even though he fights it, and he sighs lowly to mute the smile forming against his lips.  He blinks a few times in the mirror at his mum behind him, something whimsical and sweet and so fucking inviting about her grin that it hurts for him to ignore it.  He drags his thumb over his lips instead, digging the heel of his boot into the floor until a broader, matching streak of black compliments the one he left earlier.

“I look daft,” Zayn frowns, tugging at the shirt that must be made of lead because there’s no a stitch of oxygen breathing through this material.  “And what’s with the color?”

“It’s _inviting_ to children,” Tricia replies with a lifted smile, resting a hand on his shoulder with a small squeeze following.  “Studies show that it’s comforting.  Very maternal.”

“Very idiotic,” Zayn mumbles, flinching a little when Tricia pinches his shoulder.

“Zayn, don’t be so flippant,” Tricia warns and the firmness of her voice is so unfamiliar.  It’s so much like his baba and he shudders at the thought.

She was never this cold, this unrelenting.  Not until he was fourteen and Ant and Danny convinced him skipping school for beers and cigarettes down at their cousin’s was a brilliant idea.  Her face when he stumbled into their house, pissed and dazed, was something impossible to forget.

It’s unfortunate that he’s seen that face more than a few more times over the years.

“When’s lunch?” Zayn asks instead of when the fuck this punishment – he’s certain it’s his mum’s last ditch effort to try and make him a better person though he’s pretty chuffed with who he is, thank you – would be ending?

Tricia lips quirk sideways, her head shaking.  “You should be more concerned about more pressing matters.”

“Like when I get to go home?” Zayn wonders, cocking his head to the side to watch her in the mirror.

Her eyes narrow, lips pressed tightly together.  “I’m sure your Abba could find many things for you to do around the house that are much more torturous than spending your days with your precious mummy.”

_I meant Bradford_ , he thinks but he holds those thoughts down with a long swallow of bile and saliva.  He exhales quietly, fingers biting into the palm of his hand to corral the sudden need for a cigarette and a breath of city air.

Fuck, this place is worse than prison.

“You do realize this is a wonderful learning experience, yes?” Tricia inquires with her arms folded over her chest, her own lavender shirt wrinkling up beneath the pressure.  “And it’ll be a great addition to your University applications when you apply in the fall for – “

“Mummy,” Zayn whines, finally spinning on his heels.  He bites back the last of those words still clinging to his throat when she arches an eyebrow, lips pressed into a thin white line and the shift in her eyes vibrates down his spine like ice water.  It’s winter against his bones and he lowers his eyes, drops his chin, and feels so small under her glare.

“You _will_ apply to University in the fall Zayn,” Tricia tells him, firm and everything in her voice is unforgiving.  “You will make something of yourself.  You won’t be just another kid with a dream.  You’re going to be something, sunshine, because I know you already are.”

There’s a comforting hand strumming over his cheek, fingers finding the definition, and he lifts his eyes slowly with the corner of his bottom lip caught between white teeth.

He blinks at her again, gradual breaths of calm air sweeping through his lungs.  He drags the toe of a boot over the tile, still feeling so small but the reflection in her eyes reminds him that, to her, he’s still that five year old who wanted to illustrate comic books and be a Power Ranger when he grew up.

“I could’ve went to Uni back home,” Zayn sighs out, her fingers stroking the corner of his mouth in that endearing way he misses desperately.

Tricia groans, dragging her hand away.  “Zayn – “

“Ant and Danny and I could’ve – “

“Must I remind you why you’re _here_?  Do you remember what happened two months ago?”

He remembers.

It’s like a kaleidoscope of fuzzy images and disappointment and failure in his dreams.  He can still see the azure and ivory lights from the police car streaking the navy-purple sky.  He remembers focusing his eyes on the orange-tinted lamp post light rather than the iron grating that separated the front of car from where he was in the back with his hands cuffed behind his back and his world caving in on him.  He can still hear Danny’s drunken giggles from outside of the car as he was handcuffed and Ant’s head lolled on his shoulder, whimpering about _‘my mum and dad are gonna kill us and, fuck, Zayner, we’re through, d’you hear me?  We’re so fucked’_ and, even in the middle of January, his skin was fever-hot with self-destruction.  He was high and still sticky-sour from the beer they nicked from the corner store, fingers a collage of colors from the spray paint they littered the brick walls of their old school with: _Reality is wrong. Dreams are for real – Tupac_.

“It was a mistake,” Zayn offers but his mum remains stiff and his resolve can’t outweigh her disenchantment.

“A mistake was leaving you there when we moved here for a better life,” Tricia notes, her eyes dropping with her fingers.  There’s a hint of regret buried beneath her tone and he crowds thoughts of resentment into the open spaces in his chest.

“Doesn’t matter,” she tries to laugh out, waving him off but her fingers dab at the corners of her eyes and he wonders how many nights she tasted those tears while he wasn’t by her side.

Tricia clears her throat softly, a wrinkled smile on her lips with a lowered brow doing just enough to disguise her disillusions from their previous conversation.

“You’ve got loads of things to get accomplished, sunshine.  Being a volunteer around here is no easy task,” she warns him, a hearty laugh escaping her lungs when he wrinkles his nose.  “You’ve got to change the linen, help patients around, deliver meals, fluff pillows, read stories to the children, help cleans the toilets – “

“Mum,” Zayn gasps, affronted by the notion and something bubbles from her lips.

Tricia quickly throws a hand over her mouth, nudging him with a sharp elbow.  “Do you regret mucking things up back in Bradford yet, love?”

Zayn mumbles something beneath a breath that sounds like _this is fucking hell_ and squeezes his eyes shut.  His teeth find his lip once more and he hesitates briefly when she pulls him into a hug.  It’s only a moment before his arms go around her and he drags her that small distance that separates them.

She stills smells like warm spices and her hair is still silky between his fingers.  He towers over her a little but that doesn’t stop the way he feels so tiny, minute against the width of her adoration and love.

It’s the only piece of this foreign place that feels exactly like home.

**

After the first four hours of his shift – and he’s still getting used to the idea that, yeah, volunteer work is still very much a _job_ despite how lovely the films make it look – his back aches from all of the bending down and changing sheets and adjusting pillows and carrying stacks of stuff.  His fingers feel numb from the _‘perfect corners, dear, line the sheets up properly’_ the nurses fuss at him and his lungs are on fire from using the fucking _stairs_ instead of the lift to get from floor to floor when his mum requests stupid things like _‘more charts’_ and _‘another doctor’s opinion would be good on this case.’_

“Tomorrow,” his mum says with a perked up grin and flushed cheeks, auburn hair pulled up sloppily into a bun and her eyes are trained on his feet rather than his face, “you should wear some trainers rather than those things, sunshine.  Honestly, Zayn, this is a hospital, not a construction site.”

_It’s a prison_ , he thinks, smiling to himself before nodding quickly at her.  Something quirks in her smile – _distrust_ – but she leaves it at that as she takes another call before a static-heavy _‘Dr. Malik, please report to room 301B’_ echoes down the halls.

He offers her a tiny wave as she sinks down another hall before slumping over one of the nurse’s stations with a groan.  Another stack of linen is dropped before him by an elderly nurse with far too much lipstick on and a pinched smile and he thinks, regretfully, that maybe he should’ve pleaded with the judge back in Bradford for a year’s sentence in jail rather than this.

He makes it another hour before his feet feel like lead and he can barely stomach another pale-faced kid asking for apple juice instead of cranberry juice before scuffing his boots loudly down the hall towards a side exit.  His head is dropped, muscles tingling with exhaustion and he barely notices his mum – he _smells_ her though, all nutmeg and cinnamon sticks – as he passes.

“Where’re you off to now, love?” she wonders and he’s barely got enough strength to lift his chin, let alone his eyes.

“Need a cig’ break,” Zayn sighs, fumbling through his pockets until he finds his last box of Marlboro’s.

Tricia sighs impatiently, folding her arms.  “When are you going to quit that vile habit?”

Zayn quirks his lips into a grin, slipping a cigarette between them and he flicks the flame of his lighter repeatedly until he’s too far away from her to hear him say, “When you ship me back home where I belong.”  He can hear her groan and nonsensical uttering dancing off the quiet hallway but it all feels like dust beneath his feet as he budges through the heavy lead door toward an emergency escape.

The air is a little cooler, bites at his skin, picks along his cheeks but it feels like _life_.  He lights up, inhaling a long drag of nicotine and blue smoke and release.  He leans along a brick wall, a foot kicked up and he tips his head back to the warmth of the sun.  It barely filters through the heavy clouds but it’s enough to wash away emptiness but does little to cleanse the _regret, regret, regret_ that hangs over him.

His tongue licks over his dry lips and smoke swirls in his lungs until he’s almost suffocating on it.  He laughs at that, thinks of Waliyha, and palms his pockets until he finds his phone.  His lips form a tight grip on his cigarette and he thumbs through screens until he pulls up his contacts, finds Danny’s number amongst dozens of numbers he’ll never need but refuses to delete.

Zayn lowers his brow, pulling in a drag, thumbing out a message – _ay mate this shit town is a graveyard and im fucked big love Z x :(_ \- that does little to soothe the ache that rips at his muscles.  He pockets the phone again, not waiting on a reply.  He’s not hoping for one.

He takes another slow pull from his fag and this place tastes more like death than the hollowed out halls six floors down in the morgue and, admittedly, he thinks he breathes best down there.

**

Zayn spends the rest of the afternoon at his mum’s side, meeting all of her patients as she does rounds.

There’s a cherry redhead with irresistible freckles and large green eyes named Carly and Zayn thinks of the girl from those Charlie Brown cartoons rather than _Call Me Maybe_ , biting on his bottom lip to resist the smile that keeps tugging at his lips every time she bops around in her bed to her iPod with a yellow stuffed teddy bear.  He leans in the doorway as his mum goes on about Carly recovering splendidly from a high fever and the flu and the excitement that rounds Carly’s eyes isn’t half as bright as the relief that washes over her own mum’s face.

Johnny, with his missing two front teeth, pale skin and white-blonde hair is two rooms down with a lingering cold and a cast decorated in messages from his classmates binding his right forearm.  He’s intent on watching classic episodes of Pokémon and Zayn resists admitting he still has a deck of cards back in Bradford he wishes he could bring Johnny.  There’s chatter about Johnny sticking around for a few more days and a frown pulling at his mum’s lips but his father stands tall and proud, ruffling Johnny’s mused hair and raving about his one and only son climbing trees in their backyard again in a few weeks.

He finds out that Lucy wants to play in the Premier League when she gets old enough, even though she’s being treated for Leukemia and his mum admits, regretfully, in the hallway that she might not ever see that stage of her life.  Max hates all types of Jell-O except the lime-flavored ones – “Because green is ace and lads don’t eat cherry stuff.” – and Katie is only three years old but she plans on being a princess once she recovers from her surgery – a kidney transplant that nearly has Tricia in tears until Zayn grasps her hand in the hallway and lets her shiver out small whimpers that don’t last long because _brave_ is a word they both learned she had to be after she transferred from General Medicine to Pediatrics when he was ten years old and never knew the difference.

“And this, my love, is my favorite,” Tricia announces as they round the corner into another room that’s shrouded in shadows and the florescent blue glow of the telly.  She’s biting on her bottom lip – _trademark Malik_ , he thinks with a grin – before leaning in the doorway with her charts clutched to her chest and adding, “This is my sweet, sweet Noah.”

Zayn sidles up behind her, hooking his chin on her shoulder and a hand resting lightly on her hip.  He blinks through the cascade of dark silhouettes, the purple skies outside peeking through the half-closed blinds.  The blue halos around a small figure sitting in the middle of the hospital bed with the white noise of the telly playing quietly against the hum of beeping machines and a dripping IV.  Lips make the soft sounds of a locomotion and static filters through Zayn’s ears as he traces the lines of his mum’s smile as she gazes at the small boy.

He’s tiny, short legs and skinny arms in a hospital gown and _Toy Story_ pajama bottoms.  His head is lowered and it’s covered in a mess of soft looking goldenrod curls that look springy and spiral over his forehead.  He has fuzzy eyebrows that frame eyes that Zayn has to lean down to see – they’re a shade of chestnut, probably cinnamon in the daylight.  His small fingers push a few toy trains over the wrinkled sheets on the bed, the line of an IV jutting out of his arm and his skin is something like sunglow, freshly tanned but not in the artificial sense.  He’s got full lips, pink but chapped and almost drained of color.  There’s hefty circles around his eyes – Zayn imagines they look worse than his own but he doesn’t reckon this kid was up late smoking half a pack of cigarettes and draining half a box of London Pride on his parent’s rooftop.

Noah fiddles with the plastic wristband around his wrist, tugging at it helplessly before concentrating on his trains again.  He moves them in the same circular pattern, over and over, without straying from the path he’s created over sheets and a balled up duvet.  He rocks back and forth, swallowed by the shadows until it seems he’s at peace with the darkness.

Zayn, somehow, relates to the feeling.

“Noah, my love,” Tricia calls out, gentle and Zayn remembers that same tone when he was that small, drained of maturity and _responsibilities_ , that’s what they call it, right?

Noah’s head lifts just a little, round eyes the color of an oak tree’s bark.  His teeth bend the flesh of his bottom lip, a little too much pressure until its white and Zayn’s helpless under the gaze Noah gives him.

Suffocation by its very definition.

Noah’s brow lowers, looking down again to scoot his trains along their path.

Tricia sighs quietly, that smile still dizzyingly bright on her lips.  She tilts her head a little, clearing her throat.

“Are you gonna eat tonight Noah?”

“No,” Noah says softly, his voice like a warning but not quite as firm.

“Did you take your meds?”

“Yes,” his voice is softer now, almost annoyed but Zayn doesn’t imagine he knows the definition.

Tricia hums, leaning back into Zayn and he steadies her with the hand on her hip and an expanded chest.  He feels the shake of her body with her exhale, the way she narrows her eyes just a little to observe him a second longer.

“What’s wrong with him?” Zayn whispers, inching in just a little so his voice is caught under the exhale she releases.

“He came in with a fever.  Hasn’t shaken it until this morning,” Tricia admits, rubbing at the nape of her neck like the day is finally wearing on her.  She clears her throat again, Noah unmoved except for those trains that follow one by one in the same unchanging pattern.

“He’s a frequent visitor,” she adds, her lips easing downward into a small frown.  “When he gets sick, it’s hard for his immune system to fight it off.”

“That’s gotta be hard on a four-year old mum,” Zayn says, fingers and lungs suddenly itching for a cigarette and anything but this _suffering_ because that’s what it is.  Its misery dressed as healing and, he thinks, she must be numb to it now.

“He’s _eight_ , Zayn,” Tricia says a bit hastily, unmoved by the gasp that stretches out Zayn’s lungs once she’s finished.

“Get the fu – “

“Zayn,” Tricia hisses, nudging him roughly with an elbow and he tries not to jostle too much like he can take it.

“He’s so _tiny_.”

Tricia shrugs, her brow knitting together.  Her fingers flex against her clipboard but her resolve refuses to waver.

“Well there’s a bit more to it than just – “

“Pooh,” Noah calls out, loud and unfocused.  He’s staring up at Tricia, eyes never leaving her to study the flicker of the telly or Zayn or the way his shifting on the bed knocks his trains from their position.

Tricia folds her mouth into a fond smile, sighing quietly.

“Pooh,” Noah says again, a plea in his voice.  It’s strained like he’s not used to using it but he blinks at her for seconds before huffing out, “Pooh, _please_.  Pooh.”

“What’s Pooh?” Zayn whispers, nearly hisses.

Tricia shakes her head, nudging her elbow to his ribs again – gentler this time like she’s teasing him – before she walks into the room and shuffles around in the dark for something.  He keeps his eyes focused on Noah, the way the rising moon catches glitter off those brown eyes until they’re a sliding shade of gold like something supernatural.  His eyes never fall on Zayn, long blonde lashes batting away as he watches Tricia in the shadows until something loud and wondrous streams over the telly.

“Pooh!”

Zayn can read Tricia’s smile in the dark – it’s grand, ominous, irremovable.  It reaches over her cheeks, crinkles her eyes at the edges that are already worn by age and years living this life of watching sick children heal and walk away or slowly fade off like stars in a dying galaxy.

He leans in the room a little, catches the flashes of Winnie the Pooh, Piglet, even Owl before Tricia starts up the DVD with a doting smile and her eyes lingering on Noah like… like he was her own.

Noah scoots back to the head of the small bed, clutching onto a pillow and squealing with laughter at the introductions and the first appearance of Winnie the Pooh.  His soft curls fall just over his eyes and his cheeks are a quiet pink beneath the sniffling and drained color from his face.  His trains remain lined up at his bare feet and Zayn chews on his lip with fascination cornering him that quickly.

“Hopefully he’ll go home in a few days but we’re still running some tests,” Tricia explains as she leads Zayn back into the hall, stopping to breathe out a heavy sigh and push stray stands of her hair back into a sloppy bun that’s only remaining steadfast by pens and highlighters she’s collected over the hours.

Zayn sniffs, leaning against the observation window to Noah’s room, thudding the heel of his boot against the wall.

“Kid’s kinda weird, yeah?” Zayn says, fingers rubbing absently at his cold skin and he wants to blame it on the air in the hospital because, yeah, hospitals are always cold.

Tricia makes a face, something resembling a scowl, before she smacks Zayn’s bicep, hard.  He groans, rubbing at it but her eyes narrow into small slits and the curl to her lip is so familiar – when he was sixteen and she caught him smoking a bowl with Ant, disappointment faded quickly for a look like this.

He thinks it’s something like _wrath_ but maybe it’s more disgust than anger.

“Do not speak of him like that, d’you hear me?” Tricia warns with a pointed finger and Zayn’s nodding quickly because, fuck, he doesn’t know what else to do when she’s like this.

“Noah has Autism and,” she sighs, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose before something softens against her face, “he can’t help it, okay?  He doesn’t understand.  He doesn’t get the things you get naturally, Zayn.  He’s not awkward and he doesn’t know what it means to get along with people socially but that doesn’t make him _different_ or _wrong_.  He’s far from weird.”

Zayn swallows loudly, nodding again and everything sinks in his chest.  His next breath stings on the way in and his fingers are still blindly rubbing at his arm while watching her like all of the cracks and unsteady emotions will show through her armor.

“He can’t help it,” she chokes out, a shaky breath shifting the words to the floor.

“’m sorry.”

“Don’t feel sorry for him,” Tricia insists, turning from him.  She gives a glance over her shoulder to add, “He’s better off than half of the people in this world not understanding the hardships of life.  He’s better off not knowing what disappointment means or that the things he does are uncontrollable.  He’s a sweet kid, sunshine.  You’ll see.”

Her footsteps echo down the hall before he can utter a response and he thinks that one might not be necessary.  Maybe she’s not looking for one, not like she has in the past.

And silence never tasted so bitter against the roof of his mouth.

The dark crowds in a little thicker in Noah’s room, the half-moon dripping neat streams of ivory and pale gold against the bare furniture and the sheets and the crown of Noah’s head.  The curls flop a little as Noah shakes with small laughter at Pooh’s head getting stuck in a honey tree and there’s Rabbit and young Christopher and Noah rocks a little to the quiet sounds of the telly.

Teeth clamp down on a corner of Zayn’s lip, fingers gently tapping out something against the doorframe as he leans in it.  He watches quietly, lost for minutes that feel like _hours_ and taste like _days_.  Heavy eyes won’t close, tiny fingers still holding onto that pillow like it’s a lifeline.  Zayn thinks it’s the one thing tethering Noah to whatever piece of reality he knows.  He chews on his thumbnail instead of his lip, dragging the sole of his boot against the tiles and the squeak doesn’t shake Noah like he thinks it would anyone else.

He’s steadfast and content and blind to anything but what’s captivating him on that old television screen.

Everything inside of Zayn aches for a cigarette and _escape_ and, underneath that thick layer of misconception, understanding.

“Just a kid,” Zayn says to no one but he knows the throb in his voice is for himself.  A little reminder.

He turns to leave, quiet and slow, and his eyes catch Noah’s for just a second.  Its brief, the way they’re like chocolate and observant and Zayn feels the stutter in his breath, the way his heart hammers just a little louder until Noah’s looking back at the telly like that second hadn’t happened.

Like Zayn never existed.

**

At fourteen, near the end of puberty and caught in the rage of teenage mayhem, Zayn decided he hated mornings.

It’s the crease of a rising sun that leaves the sky a disorganized mess of pinks and burnt oranges and skylark purples with a rising ball of fire colored a reddish-gold that blinds you.  It’s the cool feel of dew against your skin when it’s still just on the ledge of winter, somewhere close to spring but not near enough.  It’s the shriek of birds outside his bedroom window or the way Doniya always kicked in his bedroom door to remind him yes, school _is_ quite important.  It’s the blur of a premature hangover when he was seventeen or the burst of light when his baba drew back the shades to let the sun in and remind him to cut the lawn when, fuck, clearly they could _hire_ someone to do that shit.

It’s that groggy feeling, his throat clutching its chords, the uneasiness of his bones even after a hot shower and the endless reminders that yesterday was just that… another day.

He’s yawning at the nurse’s station a little after seven and, for fuck’s sake, when was the last time he knew what _seven in the morning_ looked like?  He’s breathing in a steaming cup of black coffee that’s doused in sugar and this hospital has small, shitty cups of off-brand creamer that he hates to stir in so he settles for more sugar and something instant rather than freshly roasted like the cups Danny would buy him when they skateboarded down to the heart of the city on the weekends.  His body is slumped, shoulders too heavy still and his trainers squeak against the tiling as he waves off the nurses asking him to file stuff just to breathe in the stale sterile air for a little bit before he remembers that, yes, he’s being _forced_ to do this.

“I expect you for rounds in twenty minutes, sunshine,” Tricia tells him when she streams by, her scent lingering longer than her words.

He nods politely because, as much as he hates morning, he hates the way discontent remains etched into her expression whenever she looks at him for too long.  He rubs at his eyes and sips at his still scalding coffee, cursing under a sigh when he burns his tongue, as he makes his way down the still quiet halls – his trainers against the floor echo louder than he likes and this place is nothing like Ant’s bedroom or the music store just down the street from the coffee shop back in Bradford.

Zayn proudly salutes the halls with a middle finger and a quiet “fuck off” because this place feels nothing like home.

He peeks into Carly’s room to find her asleep with a smile and red hair spread like a wave of flames over her pillows before skipping over Max’s room, gently pulling Katie’s door closed so she won’t be awaken by Johnny singing loudly to SpongeBob before rounding the corner without thinking about it.  He sips a little slower at his coffee, inhaling the heady scent that still feels so artificial but it opens his lungs and drags some of the sleep from his system.

He’s leaning in the doorway of Noah’s room, blindly dragging fingers through the stiff bits of his quiff – he plucks at the section of it that’s a faded off copper and he can’t help but grin at the thought of December, Ant and Danny and a cheap box of chemicals that stripped his hair of its color and left behind too bright streaks of blonde.  His tongue licks at his still dry, chapped lips, and he feels half of a grin pull his mouth up and sideways over his face while watching Noah sprawled out on the floor and surrounded by an even bigger collection of toy trains.

There’s a few that look antique, most of them plastic and Zayn knows the blue and green ones are from _Thomas the Train_ because, possibly, one of his cousin’s was a bit obsessed with the series a few years back.  His soft curls look fluffier and those circles around his eyes are a deep purple like he hasn’t slept in days.

The floor looks cold and unfair against Noah’s gentle frame but he seems chuffed about it all, lips sputtering out noises while he drags the wheels over the sleek tiles.  His head is bowed like the previous night, still so focused on keeping everything in the same pattern, the same motion, never deterring.

Zayn chokes down a laugh, gulping down some more coffee and _nostalgia_ sinks into his skin – Power Rangers and leaping off his bed like a ninja or maybe Superman and chasing Waliyha around the house until his mum fussed at them with a fond smile, shaking her head.

Noah lines up all of the trains on the floor near the foot of the bed before dragging a coloring book from beneath it, reaching blindly for a pack of markers.  He folds it open in his lap, head still down, humming quietly and Zayn chews on his bottom lip when he realizes it’s a Batman book.  He tips his head to the side, eyes Noah as he adds dark colors and yellows and strips of blue to the empty pages until they’re lit up with spectrums of chaos.

Large eyes lift and glance at him through long lashes and Zayn drags his brow up curiously.

“Good morning buddy,” Zayn says, his voice still hoarse with sleep.

Noah’s eyes drop immediately, his small frame curling in on himself for a moment before an exhale relaxes everything again.

Zayn quirks an eyebrow and grips at disappointment until it inks itself beneath the surface of his skin.  He drags the toe of his trainer over the floor and drinks down more coffee, hesitation abound before he thinks about walking away.  He thinks, dejectedly, Noah prefers the silence and the loneliness rather than anything Zayn could ever offer.

He parts his lips for a long sigh, the need for a lengthy cigarette break before he even starts this day bleeding through his system and he watches as Noah gets to his feet, bopping from foot to foot in an almost cute manner because they both know the floor is too cold.  Those curls bounce and spring and his small frame reaches up to the too tall bed, grabbing at the sheets.

Zayn blinks for a moment, watching Noah struggle to pull himself up before tumbling back a little.  He bites back a small laugh at the way Noah kicks at his coloring book, frustrated before trying again.  It’s another struggle, fingers coiled tightly into the sheets until they’re sliding off the bed with Noah stumbling backwards once more.  His teeth nip at the tip of his tongue as Noah groans, whimpering a little and guilt works through him like a deep breath after a long night of sleep.

He eases quietly into the room when Noah tries again, resting his coffee on the small table meant for lunch trays and juice boxes before inching up behind Noah.  He reaches down, bending his knees a little to get to the right height, and his fingers grip Noah’s waist and lift him up onto the bed.  He settles Noah back against the inclined head of the bed, fluffing the pillows a little with a spreading grin and bright eyes.

His fingers scrub through Noah’s curls – they feel like silk and so, so soft – before drawing back with a crooked grin.  It falters, quickly, and something aches at his chest when he steps back to find Noah scowling at him.  He looks serious – about as serious as you can look when you’re only eight years old – but Zayn refuses to find his look comical.  There’s no resentment hanging against his expression but it’s… it’s half a frown with a hint of distrust.

Zayn steps back, clearing his throat quietly, unable to peel his eyes from those brown – under the still rising sun, they’re definitely like cinnamon and hot cocoa – ones that eye him so purposely.

“Sorry,” Zayn says, hushed and low.

Noah folds his arms over his chest – nearly mimicking Tricia in ways Zayn cares not to describe – and that pout lingers until Zayn backs out of the room, coffee forgotten and hands lifted in an unconscious apologetic form.  He bites at his lip and eases out of Noah’s sight just to clear his lungs of the thick smoke and crippling feeling of being unwanted.

The kid might not be weird but he’s unsettling in such a foreign way.

Zayn thinks he might just skip rounds if it means he won’t have to live under the looks he’s certain Noah will give him if he returns.

**

After a few days, Zayn settles in as best he can but he still hates the place, endlessly.  The emptiness that sticks to the walls still sends shudders down his spine and it’s always cold, cold until he sneaks away for a fag and that fresh air from a small town that’s nothing but University and all the glory that surrounds it.

He skips rounds in favor of cleaning up rooms and laying out fresh linen for new arriving patients.  Johnny’s absence makes room for Luke who’s a bit indignant and insistent on chicken with every meal and cake for dessert, which leaves more Jell-O cups for Max to consume and Zayn wonders when being nine years old permitted you to be so demanding.  Carly woefully checks out – and clings to Zayn until the breath is forced out of his lungs and a smile dances over his lips for hours after she leaves – and Sarah replaces her with a broken toe and a mild – or _massive_ , depending on your definition – obsession for Harry Potter and anything Gryffindor.

Zayn gets on with nearly all of the nurses, including Nurse Byrne who loves to pinch his cheeks when she passes and Ellie, who’s still in her first year and talks with a neat rasp but sings like a winged angel.  He loves when Leigh-Anne from Radiology pops in because she brings fresh muffins and a slightly better cup of coffee for Zayn to gargle down his exhaustion with.  Olly works part-time in janitorial services and helps Zayn clean most of the toilets before singing loudly down the halls and flirting mercilessly with Katharine, who grins and blushes and pushes him off in favor of work and honoring her belief that pleasure cannot be mixed with it – Zayn thinks she’s just a little put off by Olly’s eccentric ways or maybe his horrible jokes, but he doesn’t tease her like that intern Michael, with his ever-changing colorful hair and wide smile, does.

“Little Max keeps asking when you’re going to stop by with his jelly cup,” Nurse Byrne teases with a grin tugging up the corners of her mouth and fingers tapping merrily along a corner of the nurse’s station.

Zayn smirks over his shoulder, pulling at the impossibly uncomfortable material of this damn lavender shirt and he’s wearing joggers today because getting around this damn hospital in vintage acid-wash jeans with holes in the knees seems _implausible_ and other creative words he chooses not to think of.

He clears his throat, jerking his pack of smokes from his pocket before pocketing his name tag because _‘honestly, Zayn, if you’re going to continue that hideous habit, at least have the bullocks not to wear the name Malik while doing it’_ his mum told him days ago when she caught him behind the hospital in the center of a pile of gravel and a smaller mound of cigarette butts at his feet.  He rubs the end of his nose, trying to beat down the smile on his lips at the way Nurse Byrne – _Mary_ , though she doesn’t really let anyone get away with calling her that except Zayn when they’re alone – and her motherly perkiness keeps ticking heavily against his senses.  He nibbles at the corner of his lip for a moment, breezing past the desk and ignoring the pile of charts that are already stacked on the corner waiting on him.

“Lime, right?” Zayn snorts, swallowing down a heartier laugh at the way she purses her lips at him.

“You know you’re his favorite volunteer around here,” Mary beams, humming playfully and it’s something out of _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_ that he recognizes from his own childhood.

“Rubbish,” Zayn shoots back, still battling against the way the corners of his mouth quirk at her.  “I swear the kid gets completely pissed off his arse at the extra boxes of apple juice you slide him after every meal.”

“Language,” Ellie hums with no malice as he slides by her, already winking at him because they all know where he’s ducking off to.

He might kind of like this place a little more now but he still hates it and smoking helps.  Besides, he’s smoking for _posterity_ , not for release – at least, that’s what he’s been telling himself through the two cigarettes before noon every day and the four more he’ll puff through before his shift ends.

“I’ll tell him you’ll be by before your mum has early rounds today?” Mary offers up, her brow lifted and her smile teetering on the edge of curiosity.

Zayn swallows and, _fuck_ , early rounds is always a headrush for him.  New patients, some poor kid headed for a surgery that _might_ correct the already broken pieces of their youth, possibly an early release for someone that he’s grown attached to but he’s thankful if only for a new empty bed for him to catch a kip in between room checks.

He sniffs while slipping a cigarette between his lips, flicking his lighter, and the end catches fire before he’s even out the door this time.

“Tell ‘im I’m not sitting through a whole hour of _Young Justice_ this time,” Zayn calls out as he budges through the side exit and he’s sunken into crisp air, a lofty breeze that hums with spring, and the shade of one of those tall trees in the field just behind the hospital.

He likes it out here.  There’s a bundle of trees with long, strong limbs and leaves that are six shades of green and gold – so reminiscent of early spring even though March and April are colliding like blind ships on open waters.  There’s a garden not too far off that some of the patients walk through for rehabilitation or escapism or just the view.  A few benches outline the walkway of the garden and, when Zayn feels like watching long enough, he can spot the butterflies and their colorful wings or the spark of fireflies in the early evening.  It’s always so quiet and _solace_ is what he thinks of when he’s laid across one of the benches, braving the warmth of the sun and the spinning clouds that go from ivory to silver, almost a deep grayish hue in the late afternoon.

When he remembers, he sneaks his sketchpad into his backpack in the morning and spends his lunch break just mapping out the structure of the hospital or the bed of flowers near the garden, maybe one of the children who’s well enough to trample through the short, emerald grass.  He works in charcoal or pencil, smudging lines and teaching himself the meaning behind _shadowing_ and _light_ that his Tenth Year art teacher failed to.  He coats his fingertips in ash and silver streaks from the lead and chews a thin layer of flesh from his bottom lip while trying to draw the bend of the branches on the trees or the way Max’s eyes light up whenever Ellie wheels him under of the trees to soak in a cool breeze on his cheeks and the birds cascading across pale blue skies.

He doesn’t take in any of that today.  He huffs through his cigarette, never letting the smoke embed itself in his lungs but it swirls in his chest until it’s heated and he’s dashing back into the hospital before he’s missed.  Days when his mum does early rounds means more papers to file, beds to change, and he gives two fucks if Mary isn’t impressed with the way he folds the corners of the sheets today because he’s too knackered and this place is still shit.

It’s not… well, it’s not Bradford.

He’s down the hall, rounding the corner, and praying for a cup of that shit coffee Leigh-Anne provides him with when the sound of his mum laughter tickles his ears.  It feels like years – in fact, it has been – since he’s heard his mum laugh like this.  It’s genuine.  It’s honest.  It’s beautiful and he slows his steps the closer he gets to it, the sound of giggling harmonizing with his mum’s laughter and he leans against one of the walls to watch.

Tricia’s arm is slung around another woman with gold-blonde hair and crinkled eyes.  Her cheeks are so familiar and the width of her smile is grand.  There’s wrinkles that accent all of her softer features and she’s clinging as tightly to Tricia as his mum is to the woman.  Their heads are pushed together, two old mates in the birth of something magical, and their free fingers are twined together.

“ _Oh_.”

Zayn’s brow is lifted, kissing his hairline, and he’s biting unconsciously on his lip when his mum’s eyes fall on him, a pair of smaller brown eyes following.

“Sunshine, come on and meet someone very important,” Tricia says, waving him over and he takes a few hesitant steps forward like he’s invading on something private and spectacular.

“This woman here has been a godsend since our move here,” Tricia insists, grinning even wider, if that was possible.  She’s squeezing her arm tighter around the other woman’s shoulders, giggling into her hair.

“Oh Tricia, please stop.  I’ve not been.  You have.”

Zayn clears his throat gently, rubbing nimble fingers at the nape of his neck, and _intrusion_ seems to grip him until he’s mere breaths from them, never moving closer.

“Zayn, m’love, this is Mrs. Payne – “

“Oh Tricia, hush.  It’s merely Karen, my dear.”

Zayn’s shocked by the hand extended to him like it’s foreign, something he doesn’t usually get but, then again, this place isn’t familiar to him.  Everyone is so nice and wholesome and like _family_ , though he knows none of them will ever really be that to him.  Just acquaintances.  Tattered memories in a scrapbook of nothingness he won’t even bother reviewing months from now when he’s back in Bradford.

Yet, there’s something about her round cheeks and glowing smile and the little giggles that keep tipping past her lips like life excites her.  He imagines, without pessimism encasing him that it probably does.

He shakes her hand, tries not to gasp when she sputters with laughter and drags him into a hug that she throws all of her weight behind like she’s known him for years.

He thinks _lack of oxygen_ and he hesitates for a strangled breath before hugging her back.  She’s warm and smells of fresh flowers, washing powder and clean linen.  It’s… _nice_.

“Oh my, Tricia,” Karen gushes, disentangling herself from Zayn and he eyes her smile like it’s cryptic with its sweetness and openness, “he’s _gorgeous_.  I can see he’s just as pretty as you.”

She brushes a hand to his cheek, fingers resting on the definition and sparse scruff and he wonders if she can feel the heat of his blush along her palm.  He chews at his bottom lip, mumbling a “thank you” because his mum taught him things like manners and he chokes on a breath when she giggles, nodding back at him.

“He’s quite the pain in the arse,” Tricia teases, smacking Zayn’s arm playfully and he huffs out a small laugh, grinning at his mum.

There’s a light in her eyes like the day Safaa said her first word or the morning before his sister Doniya’s graduation or the time she found him huddled under his thick duvet, reading a borrowed copy of _the Two Towers_ on a Friday night rather than buzzing in the city’s streets with Ant.

It warms him and he’s caught off guard by the way she tilts her head at him, adding in a fond voice, “But he is something special.”

“I bet,” Karen giggles out, taking a step back from Zayn and falling under the wing of Tricia’s arm again.  “Probably just like my angel.”

Zayn smiles, shy and he drags his foot along the tiles rather than mumbling an excuse to escape this sort of embarrassment.  He’s certain they’d just tease him all the way down the hall toward the supply closet where he thinks he could hide out for a few hours, reading that copy of _Action Comics_ he bought at some bookstore near the center of town the other day.

“Karen is Noah’s grand – “

“Oh gosh, must you,” Karen huffs with a small roll of her eyes and a drunken snicker.

“His grandmother,” Tricia finishes, nudging Karen with an elbow and they’re a fit of laughter again that assaults Zayn’s ears in a feverish way.

“I feel like his _mum_ most days,” Karen sighs, a hint of something running beneath her words, the corners of her mouth lowering a little, eyes losing some of their luster.

Tricia nods, blinking at Karen before swallowing.  “Is Nicola coming by to see him?”

It happens so quickly – laughter submerged in reality, a frown folding over Karen’s lips and everything that echoed down the halls earlier feels like ghosts circling them.

“Probably not.”

Tricia hums, pulling Karen in closer, resting her head against Karen’s like _sympathy_ and _understanding_ reaches out through her chest.  She rubs a comforting hand over Karen’s shoulder – at least, it looks that way but Zayn’s not certain he understands the scope of things just yet.  He presses his back to the wall instead, glancing over his shoulder into Noah’s room and everything is still and quiet outside of Noah moving his trains over the cold floor, same rhythm, unchanged.

“Ruth’s been trying to get out of a few shifts to come by to see her nephew,” Karen explains, eyes on the floor now and Zayn can see it: the curve of her cheeks, the color of her eyes, the square shape of her jaw.  He sees it in Noah every morning.

“But Nicola,” she pauses, clearing her throat, words never touching her lips.  She inhales deep, lifting her head some.  “I’m just thrilled I could come spend the rest of the day with him.  I know he hates being here without us.”

“And his uncle?” Tricia asks, eyes shifting over Noah, a smile tucked against her lips.  “You know Noah’s been asking.”

Something illuminates over Karen’s face – _peace_.  She’s bright and her smile glows, eyes crinkling just at the edges again.

“Yes, yes.  He’s been so busy with Uni, but soon,” Karen says assuredly, squeezing at Tricia’s hand.  She sighs, happy and content on repeat once more, resting her head on Tricia’s shoulder as she admires Noah from afar.  “He can’t get enough of that boy.  I swear, since Noah was a baby.  Always right there.”

“He’s a good boy,” Tricia remarks, eyeing Zayn for a moment with something that’s… _weird_?  She gives him a look, almost expectant and he can’t read all of its little meanings, not behind her smile or the way her lips twitch.

“They both are.”

Karen hums kindly, exhaling softly.  “They really are.”

“Zayn will be starting University in the fall,” Tricia speaks up, her smile hiding the hint of demand in her voice and Zayn shrinks a little.  He presses into the wall like protection, shoving his hands into his pockets just as Karen’s eyes trace over him again.

“Will he?”

Tricia nods quickly, narrowing her eyes at Zayn.  “Hopefully here, too.  He’s a brilliant artist.  A poet too.  So talented and we’d hate to see him waste it.”

It comes off like a declaration, maybe a question, and Zayn swallows back dissatisfaction, the need to argue her away from this sudden need to _guide_ him.

He’s nineteen and quite capable of making his own decisions, thank you.

Still, he chews at his lip until it aches and merely nods for Karen because this isn’t the place.  Not for the discussion he knows will come eventually, whether either one of them will admit it.

A cup of shit coffee and another cigarette might stop the way his fingers twitch and his lungs feel incapable of circulating enough oxygen through his body to survive this.

“They offer up a great art program here, Zayn,” Karen informs him and she doesn’t come off as pushy or insistent like he expects her to be.  She’s kind, a little aloof, and it’s so endearing that Zayn bites his lip a little softer and nods a response.

“Maybe,” Zayn mumbles and it’s just enough that they fall into their own discussion about schooling and Noah’s constant fever and his loss of appetite from the flu and Zayn breathes a shaky release when they go on without him.

He thuds his head against the wall, chest aching from the thrum of his heart, focusing on the wall opposite of him until his vision goes blurry and this doesn’t feel so crippling.  He swallows, manages to sort through white noise and shallow breaths and _Bradford, my home, not here_ until he can look away.  He watches Noah – transfixed on trains and silence and his own reality – and it’s the first time Zayn wishes he could live in that kind of bubble.

His heart beats steady for a few breaths and Noah looks up, brief and empty, blinking at Zayn like he can _feel_ Zayn watching him.  His expression is blank but Zayn thinks, behind the structure, there’s something quite sweet and helpless.

He skids down the hall, around the corner, and his next cigarette is lit before he knocks through the side door.

**

Zayn learns the best and worst part of living in a University town in this undying sense of _unity_ that comes along with it.  Everyone’s known each other for years, gone to the same churches, attended the same schools, brought up their kids together to continue the tradition.  The sports teams are like a religion – generally, not one you can worship by _choice_ he learns after a week – and everyone is maddeningly supportive of whatever team is actually playing during that season.  Winter belongs to basketball and the long distance running teams, summer is for swimming and water polo and things that involve chlorine, but spring is made for football.

He tries not to look wide-eyed the first few times he finds the nurses dressed in gold and black jersey shirts instead of those uncomfortable scrubs but it becomes almost forgettable on game days, except he can’t help but make a face and wrinkle his nose when Nurse Byrne wears a number ‘ _79’_ jersey and Ellie’s got her hair pinned up in sparkly gold ribbons and even Olly wears a University tee on Fridays and Saturdays to show his support.  It’s a bit nauseating the way the atmosphere changes – there’s a glow about the halls when the footy team wins, a gentle frown on lips when they lose, and adjusting to this kind of life is awful.

Zayn complains to Leigh-Anne because she gets it, being from a large city and all, but he doesn’t dare utter a word to the others.  They’re sworn to this addiction – togetherness, support, this little lifeline they cling to like this town and its sports is all they’ll ever have.

He thinks, sadly, that maybe it is.

“They said the Tommo was amazing tonight,” Marry announces with a bellowing laugh, leading Olly down the hall and her voice is so chuffed that Zayn almost misses it.

“Heard he scored the first and last goal.  And the way he runs that field,” Olly cheers, grinning.

Mary nods quickly, smiling so bright.  “The team would be nothing without ‘im.  Oh, and that fresher too.  Number seventy-nine, I swear.”

He’s distracted enough, seated behind the nurse’s station with his black Converse kicked up on the desk, reclining in an uncomfortable rolling chair that squeaks when he puts too much weight against it, that he misses one of the other nurses clearing her throat at him.  He shakes, flounders a little, knocking over an empty cardboard coffee cup.

“You’re here late,” she says with a small giggle and an arched eyebrow, a hand lifting to cover her mouth.

He kicks out a little, unsettling his copy of _Angels and Demons_ in his lap.  He drags soft fingers through his neatly done quiff, toying with the copper strands before fixing the black-framed glasses on his nose.  Those fingers rub at his two day old stubble, the sharp hair prickling the tips before chewing out a smile.

Zayn tips his head back, grinning.  “Picked up a night shift.”

“On a Friday night?” she wonders, leaning on the desk and she’s middle-aged with glossy lips, frizzy brown hair, and a University t-shirt that’s striped gold and black and bunching around her chest.

Zayn gives a careless shrug, reaching out for his cup of tea – Mary teaches him all of the best tea is on the Cardiology floor, the best donuts in the lobby, and there’s halfway decent coffee three floors up in the surgical ward after six in the evening – and blows gently at it.

“Ellie wanted the night off to go to the game and mum says nights aren’t so bad around here,” Zayn offers, sipping down the stiff taste of too much lemon, thick honey, and a spicy tea that’s much better than the Earl Grey his mum devours every morning.  “’sides, I like the quiet.”

She hums, smirking.  “You’re too young to miss this town after a good footy game.  It’s quite the experience down at the pubs and the square at the heart of town.  The Uni kids are insane.”

His eyebrow reach up to his hairline, his intrigue just a masquerade.  He can’t imagine any of these kids could live up to a night with Ant and Danny, a small baggy of weed, a fifth of vodka, and the Middleton twins they’d screw around with when they were too fucked up to convince Zayn to give them head instead.  He licks out a small smile, the crinkles around his eyes drawing up a bigger grin across her face.

“I’ll pass,” Zayn insists, flipping to another page in his book.  “Me mates back home wouldn’t be too proud of me missing a good party but I doubt this place is much of that.”

“Never know Zayn,” she says, leaning off the counter.  She winks at him before turning away, glancing over her shoulder to add, “Give this place a chance.  The people might surprise you.  If anything, the chance to actually be yourself might actually change your mind.”

Zayn swallows slowly, his brow dropping, and he narrows his eyes at her back, devoid of distrust but anchored by curiosity.  She’s down the hall, just a fuzzy image before he hums quietly, popping in an earbud and he hikes up the volume on his iPod – _I’m just trying to be cool. It’s all because of you. Some fanatic attitude, we’re both on_.  He nods his head along to the thrum of guitars and synthesizes and pretends he doesn’t feel a bit geeky, picking up an extra shift of _volunteer_ work at a place he sort of hates most days rather than getting bladdered at a pub with kids he doesn’t know and could fuck without tacking on _‘no harm, no foul’_ as a provision for the after effects in the morning.

He makes a few rounds in the halls sometime after midnight because the silence is a little too fragile and the clicks, beeps, buzz of machines coils against his spine after each room he passes.  He tucks the thick, wooly duvet around Max’s shoulders when he finds him shivering, picks up little Cheryl’s stuffed rabbit off the floor so she can cuddle to it in her slumber.  A quiet laugh bubbles from his chest when he leans in the doorway of Lucy’s room because she’s balled up in the center of her bed like a semicolon and it reminds him of Safaa before she got so much older.

His teeth catch his bottom lip, just around the chapped edges, trainers squeaking on the turn as he hums softly while bending the corner.  He eyes the white tiles, the way the florescent lights mirror off of them so brightly and he’s folding his arms as he leans in Noah’s doorway.  He pushes his glasses up with a nimble finger, the pulse of something sweet in his ear, and he exhales a low sigh while settling his eyes on Noah in the dark.

The quirk of his lips, the remains of a smile fade off a bit.  He drags the toe of his trainer over the floor, inhaling the scent of fresh linen to dust out the hollowed feeling in his lungs as he watches Noah twist between the sheets, flop onto his back with a heavy breath.  The moon, blanketed by one of those starry nights Zayn remembers from back home, creates a dull halo around the crown of Noah’s head and those long, long lashes flutter against his soft, pinkish cheeks.  His nose twitches, fingers twisting into the duvet before he’s turning again, wheezing a little.

Zayn’s breath catches, hot and achy in the middle of his chest, and he leans in a little to listen to the scattered breaths Noah releases after that.  He inhales with Noah, waits, but Noah’s next breath takes longer to echo off the walls.  Noah’s lips twitch open, a rolling snore shaking his body before he’s turning again, lying on his back with tiny fingers digging into his pillow.  Zayn wrinkles his brow and the moon plays off Noah’s cheek, his fuzzy eyebrows crinkled and mouth still gaped to let out heavy breaths that thunder like tree limbs against a bass drum.

“Sleep apnea,” Mary whispers, inching into the doorway next to Zayn, sighing before Zayn turns to blink at her.  “It’s a sleep disorder.  It effects his breathing when he’s sleep.  Almost like he stops breathing for a bit and then he’s fine again for a few minutes.  Poor kid has always had it.”

Zayn’s teeth drag in his bottom lip again, fingers twitching at his side, the buzz of music – _I gave you something you can never give back; don’t you mind_ – slowly forgotten.  He watches Mary for a second – the pull of her lips, the droop of her eyes, the way everything sweet and settling warm about her ghosting away – before lowering his eyes to Noah again as he kicks at the sheets and curls up on his side.

Something sinks from the center of his chest to that space just above his stomach and _sympathy_ feels like too big a word for the numbness that spreads through his fingers, down the back of his calves to his ankles, the bones of his feet.

“He’s so sweet,” Mary whispers, lips moving upward just a little.  She hums again, doting and completely maternal.  “I’ve known him since we was a wee infant.  He has underdeveloped lungs and asthma and you think ‘why would someone who’s so smitten with life suffer through it without ever knowing?’”

Zayn drops his eyes, hands shaking.  “He’ll be okay?”

Mary laughs, bright and cheery, and Noah doesn’t flinch, just hangs onto those stuttered breaths that sounds like he’s stopped taking in oxygen long ago.

“Of course,” Marry says assuredly, round eyes too warm for Zayn in the halfway point of light and dark between the hallway and Noah’s room.

Zayn feels her arm go around his waist, pulling him in, knocking her head to his shoulder and it settles his breathing once more.  His thoughts are on maximum velocity but his heart, caught right in the hollow of his neck, slides further down.

“We all are okay in this life or after, mate,” Mary promises into Zayn’s shoulder, “and that little lad is the strongest of us all.  He doesn’t know it, but he is.”

Zayn nods, narrowing his eyes.  He can’t help the pull at the corner of his mouth, the way his cheeks lift a little higher at the little snores, the way Noah tucks his chin and blindly reaches for nothing.  Tiny fingers curl around an end of the sheet, the chord from his IV tangling just a little and Zayn thinks, superheroes have never looked so small before.

**

This place is so quiet, so cold sometimes.

Well, no, _all of the time_ but there’s days he doesn’t notice.  Moments in between cigarette breaks and chats with Leigh-Anne and shit cups of coffee that his tongue has adjusted to but does little to fully wake him every morning that he realizes the quiet aches against his bones.  When he’s humming down the halls, it’s all that echoes loud and unfiltered over the buzzing machines, the beeps, the clicking, the fucking drip of an IV that he hears in his sleep now.  The squeak of his trainers down a set of stairs or the sound of his own breathing in his ears that pounds louder than the low hum of this emptiness.

He thinks hell, if ever there is one, is probably something like this.

He buzzes along to Drake, the Weeknd, bits of Michael Jackson – _Annie, are you okay? Said Annie, are you okay? Are you okay Annie?_ – that filter through his earbud while peeking into a few rooms with warm smiles, tongue pressed firmly against his teeth, to lift the corner of some child’s mouth.  He fails at trying to moonwalk past a few rooms and trips over his own feet trying to glide around Olly.

He feels stupid and daft and he thinks it’s the space between Bob Marley and Kanye that he hears the soft sound of whimpering.  It’s a wounded noise, his brow lifting and he’s crossing around the angle of a corner towards it without thinking.

Zayn nudges open Noah’s door with his knee and his lip between his teeth.  A few quick glances, over the empty bed with the rumpled duvet, past the windowsill that Karen usually sits hours in instead of that uncomfortable metal chair near the bed, around the stack of trains that are lined up perfectly to the middle of the floor near the foot of the bed where untouched coloring books lay open.

There’s a lump holding oxygen at bay in his throat when he tries to swallow.  His fingers itch – for a cigarette, a cup of coffee, a way out – and he bites down a little too sharply at the sight of Noah with his head bowed, quiet whimpers escaping his lips, and small tears sluicing down his round cheeks.  And everything that was warm from the morning or his last fag thirty minutes ago turns bitter cold on his next exhale.  He rubs at the nape of his neck and clears his throat just loud enough that Noah lifts his head.

“Hey mate,” Zayn says, words a little choked on existing guilt, “you okay?”

There’s a sniffle, a hiccup of breath, and that stiff feeling pressing at the center of Zayn’s spine works its way around to his stomach, _sinking_.

“Pooh.”

Zayn arches an eyebrow high, teeth pulling at a corner of his mouth now.  “’cuse me?”

Another labored sniffle flakes out a few more tears, Noah’s tiny fingers balled into fists and his lips try to form words but he struggles.  He stutters and swallows and it still won’t come.

It _hurts_ , fuck, it does.

“Please,” Noah pleads, scrambling for other words and bits of vocabulary that Zayn’s slowly learned he’ll never have a hold of.  He chokes out a small sob, too quiet in this already white noise-filled hospital.  “Pooh, _please_.”

Zayn swallows, inching in the room and he already knows.  He recognizes it, the silent call that’s in those wide, wide brown eyes – touches of cinnamon, swirled with that faded gold like the lowering sun – and he moves quickly through the shadows.

“Winnie the Pooh, right?” Zayn asks, already crouching down before Noah.  He hesitates, his hand shaking, before reaching out to rub the tears from Noah’s cheeks.  He waits for a flinch, his thumb stroking soft, soft skin but Noah holds steadfast.

Noah nods quickly, sucking in his bottom lip and Zayn can’t fight his smile.  He can’t help the way Noah looks, underneath the somber and bewilderment, almost content with Zayn.

“C’mon then,” Zayn laughs out, the timbre of his voice low and even.  He knows Noah is like a deer in the open – always cautious and ready to run.

He reaches out, sitting back on his haunches for support, to pull Noah up into his arms.

Zayn doesn’t have to put much exertion into carrying Noah the few steps it takes to get to the bed.  He settles him onto it, near the head of the bed, ruffling those soft curls until Noah blinks up at him curiously.  He snorts, stroking Noah’s hairline before reaching behind him for the remote.

He flips on the DVD with little effort, folding his arms when Noah’s eyes turn bright, bright, a smile flicking over his lips, his cheeks that fair shade of original bubblegum.  It holds tight against Zayn’s chest and he stutters on a laugh, shaking his head and dropping the remote on the bed.

Tiny fingers tangle into those stupid lavender scrubs he’s wearing when he goes to move away, pulling, and Zayn looks down with a lifted brow.  Those wide eyes, caught by the rays of the sun until they’re amber and hauntingly wondrous, are on him now rather than Winnie the Pooh and all of his mates.  Small teeth still hold a bottom lip and Zayn wonders if maybe he did something wrong.

“Sit.”

Zayn blinks at him for a beat, scratching at the bits of scruff on his chin he didn’t catch with a razor this morning.

“What?”

Noah startles like he _can’t_ and Zayn moves in closer to the bed, resting a hand on the nape of Noah’s neck.

“Sit,” Noah says again, a little lower but still demanding.

Zayn swallows around a small smile – almost unnoticeable but completely unmistakable – before nodding.  He moves in when Noah scoots over a little, only offering a corner of the bed that’s caged in by the plastic railing and the machines that are meant to monitor him too close.  Zayn nudges Noah around, ignoring his huff, and lets his legs hang off the side of the bed while leaning back against the inclined top half.

“Good?” Zayn wonders and Noah wades around the question like he doesn’t understand before shrugging and nodding.

He laughs, deep and the feeling – _satisfied_ – rattles in his chest.

“’m Zayn by the way,” Zayn offers up with Noah leaning into his side, just a small bundle of warmth that burns through the fabric of Zayn’s shirt.

Noah looks up at him again, eyes wider with his lips parted.  He tries and tries to form his lips around the word, Zayn’s name, but he fails again.  There’s a hint of discouragement leaking in and Zayn eases an arm around those small shoulders, comforting.

“Call me Zee,” Zayn suggests, smiling so hard that his tongue is forced against the back of his teeth.  “Or Zay.”

Noah tries again, lips twisting before he stutters out, “Zay.”

Something incredibly bright and fiery and, fuck there’s a word for this but Zayn’s too caught up in the way his cheeks ache from smiling to bother trying.

_Incredible_ , he thinks and lingers on that word as he coils his arm tighter around Noah’s shoulders while that small body curls closer to him, a head on his ribs and their laughter stitched together, echoing off those quiet walls when Tigger pounces on Rabbit.

**

He’s adding just enough scoops of sugar to his coffee to make it bearable when someone behind him clears their throat loudly.

Zayn drags nimble fingers through his product-free hair, the fringe already starting to hang over his lashes and his teeth sink into his lip when he turns away from the nurse’s station to follow the noise.  He sniffles quietly, smiling, dragging his knuckles over his scruff when Mary grins at him.

“Spending a Saturday night with us now, eh?” she teases with that warm smile that lifts some of the cold from his spine and that itch against his skin, “It’s almost like you’re falling in love with this place instead of hating it completely, yeah?”

Zayn makes a face, doing his best to school enough of his features that it’s not noticeable.  His brow knits together, lowered, and he drags his hair up into something sweet and _almost_ a quiff before saying, “I never said I – “

Mary rolls her eyes promptly with a barking laugh.

“Oh love, please.  It’s been on your face since day one, innit?” Mary says playfully, pushing at his shoulder until a small smile is knocked over his cheeks.  She straightens out her black University t-shirt – another game night he supposes – before adding, “Don’t worry, your mum looked the same way the first month she was in this shit town.  Comes with the territory when you’re not homegrown.”

Zayn blushes, ducking his head, and his coffee is not nearly as hot as his cheeks in this moment.  He fiddles with his hair again, doing little to style it but tugging at the ends until the strain loosens another grin on his lips.

“But makes you wonder why a young chap like you would spend his weekend nights volunteering at a hospital when you should be out shagging a pretty girl,” Mary pauses, an eyebrow flicking upward with a curl to her smile, and Zayn tries not to gasp when she adds, “or a fine chap if me intuition leads me right these days.”

There’s something challenging in her voice, not malicious but still a crater of insistence that weighs heavy on Zayn.

Zayn blinks at her, eyes wide like a full moon with a part to his lips, words never touching his tongue.  Blood rushes his cheeks like the start of a tsunami and when the fuck did he become things like _obvious_ and _transparent_?

“Actually,” Zayn starts, swallowing around vowels and proper diction fails him, “I’ve sort of got a bird back home.”

Mary giggles, nodding.  She hip checks him as she walks by, slow and taunting.  “We’ve all got a _‘sort of’_ somewhere, dear.  But when you sort out a _‘definite,’_ well then you don’t have to hide behind a _‘sort of’_ or a _‘maybe.’_ ”

She’s clutching the charts and folders in her arms a little tighter as she moves down the hall and she disappears around a corner long before the sound of her snickers fade out of Zayn’s ears.

He’s dazed and too far from the center of gravity or reality and, fuck, he’s out of smokes so his first option to reinstate his vitals is blown.  He bites at chapped lips, burying fingers into his hair again until it stands up tangled but soft while stumbling in the opposite direction of haunting giggles.  He moves off instinct, past Max’s room, squeaking by the abandoned room that Katie once occupied, and cold weathers down on his skin from these halls.

There’s a soft, lulled singing beating in his ears when he rounds that corner he’s walked too many times now.  And he’s lead by that voice to Noah’s room with the door wide open and the only light coming from a pale moon and the florescent lighting over the bed.

Zayn sucks in a quiet breath, leaning in the doorway, tucking his chin just a little with wide eyes watching.  Noah’s tucked carefully into a pair of careful arms, head resting on an expanded chest, blonde lashes beating every few seconds against those soft cheeks and Zayn’s distracted by the boy cradling Noah rather than the fact that, for the first time ever, Noah’s at peace and sleeping like he hasn’t for years.

He takes in the buzz cut, the way it makes everything about this boy’s face soft, soft, and youthful.  He’s got large eyes like Noah, Zayn can tell, and they’re a hickory brown, whispers of almond and a sunset like gold.  He’s faint stubble along his jaw and chin, full pink lips, thick eyebrows like Noah, and the same cheeks.  He’s got an innocence that looks unheard of with his chin lowered, eyes nearly closed as he looks down at Noah, and Zayn’s not all bothered by the cheesy lyrics – _When I look into your eyes, I know that it’s true. God must have spent a little more time on you_ – even though he hasn’t heard them since he was an eight year old prat chasing Doniya around the house because his voice is fucking _soothing_.

And Zayn pretends the race of his heart, the way his palms sweat, the way something flickers like the edge of a flame in his stomach and his cock is normal.

Zayn takes in another breath, this one sharper, and the boy’s head lifts a little, Noah stirring just slightly in his arms like he’s trying to get _closer_.  Zayn imagines he would too, given the opportunity.

The boy’s eyelashes beat against his cheeks shyly, the corners of his mouth quirking as something like a smile spreads over his face.  The overhead light washes out some of his complexion but he’s still tan skin and round cheeks and, fuck, there’s so much of Noah in his expression that Zayn thinks he could be Noah’s – _No_.  He doesn’t want to think that.

Not someone this young.

“’m sorry,” Zayn squeaks out, shaking a little, leaning off the doorway.

The boy snorts, his grin widening like the long stretch of the sea.  Zayn thinks of that class on Greek Mythology and the gods and he feels completely daft for thinking that, possibly, this boy is from Mount Olympus.

“’s okay,” he says, his voice low and cautious like he’s scared of waking Noah, “I probably shouldn’t be here past visiting hours anyway.  It’s just that – I’ve not seen him in a while.  Not since he’s been back in the hospital, at least.”

Zayn nods and, right, it _is_ late on a Saturday and why the hell was Zayn here anyway?

“You can come in,” the boy offers, incredibly polite with those large eyes crinkling just at the corners when he smiles too hard.

Zayn does, hesitantly, but he’s at the foot of the bed before thought overrules desire and his fingers pick at the loose threads of Noah’s duvet for a second because he needs a _distraction_.  Not this boy, but something else.

His teeth catch the corner of his lip when the boy gives him a once over like he’s… like he’s _fascinated_ by Zayn and the beat of blood rushing Zayn’s cheeks feels nearly impossible to hide.

There’s something cruelly shy about the way the boy stirs in the bed, adjusting Noah in his arms – the ones that are toned and there’s four chevrons tattooed along the outside of his forearm and Zayn’s eyes trace the _‘everything I wanted but nothing I’ll ever need…_ ’ along the other forearm for a moment, a sideways smile crooking his lips.  He looks up at Zayn through his lashes and Zayn’s heart stops – no, it _doesn’t_ because that would be fucking mad – when he takes in another breath.

Zayn looks away, a force of habit he’s certain he learned at a young age, and smiles down fondly at Noah tucked in those strong arms where muscles stretch and coil under sun-kissed skin.

“I’m the only one who could ever get him to fall asleep since he was an infant.”

Zayn swallows, looking up again, and the boy giggles, his nose wrinkling.  A short gasp that’s supposed to sound more like a laugh escapes Zayn’s lips and he rocks back on his heels, tugging on the edge of the blanket for support.

“I used to walk around his room, rocking his wee little body in my arms until the poor lad was sleep,” he explains, his voice a little fuller but still kind and foreign.  “Was me mum’s hero ‘cause no one else could do it.”

Zayn’s chest feels tight with the way his heart surges against it and not smiling feels like a dare he can’t accept.

“’m Liam, by the way.  I’m his,” _don’t say father_ , Zayn thinks, “uncle,” and Zayn breathes again.

And _oh_.  His uncle.

The son Karen goes on about with bright smiles and shiny eyes and Zayn expected someone _older_ , in a University jumper with glasses and a penchant for Harper Lee.  Not this boy with all of these youthful features and round, soft-looking cheeks hidden behind bits of stubble and eyes like melting swirls of chocolate.

“Zayn,” Zayn says quickly but with less finesse.  He snickers nervously and Liam’s laugh joins his, eyes crinkling around the corners again.

“Zayn,” Liam repeats, sweeter, bits of pink spreading over those cheeks.

Zayn snorts, nodding.  He arches an eyebrow at the way Liam ducks his head some and this kid’s incredibly nervous, he can tell.

“I’m a volunteer here,” Zayn explains, waving a hand around to make sense of the rest and Liam nods along, resting his chin on the crown of Noah’s head for a moment, biting down relentlessly on that pink bottom lip.

Something inside of Zayn wants to replace Liam’s teeth with his own and suck the ache away until that lip is swollen, spit-slick, and begging for Zayn to mark up other pieces of his body.

Liam hums quietly when Noah shakes in his arms like the lack of oxygen stutters him awake but he’s still asleep.  Zayn watches Liam’s brow crinkle a little and it tastes like disappointment at the back of his throat, the way worry shifts over Liam’s expression for briefs seconds of unnoticeable moments.

“S’okay if I stick around for a little while?” Liam asks, lifting those brown eyes again.

Zayn nods quickly, biting at his own lip now just to hush down the words in his head – _stay forever, can I stay too, I would not object to you never leaving my sight_.  He scuffs his trainer on the floor and exhales a gush of air he wishes was littered with cigarette smoke.

“Yeah,” he chokes out, running his eyes over Liam again.  “It’s fine.”

Liam nods back, smiling again.  It’s goofy and not nearly as unpleasant as Zayn wants it to be.  No, instead it’s memorable and _dreamy_ and Zayn thinks there’s somewhere he should be, something he has to do.

“Bet Noah wishes I would’ve showered first though,” Liam laughs out, his thumb stroking Noah’s hairline, pushing back those floppy curls.  “I’m still a bit rank and sweaty from the game but I rushed right over.”

Zayn lifts his eyebrows and he hadn’t really noticed Liam was wearing trackies, cleats, and a footie jersey until now.  It adds to that boyishness that Zayn can’t seem to get past.  He looks _fit_ and there’s still bits of grass stuck to his jersey, green streaking over the white seventy-nine on his chest.

“You play for University?” Zayn wonders, blinking rapidly like he can’t believe he’s asking questions.

Liam gives a short nod, his smile pushing his cheeks higher.

“Fresher,” Liam admits with a huddled snicker.  He rubs at his cheek, thick fingers doing little to hide the rough shades of pink already there.  “Lucky I’ve even made the team.  The competition here is quite stiff.”

_And so is my cock_ , Zayn thinks, dropping his chin to hide the darkness of his eyes.  He shifts a little, his dick aching against his thigh, and he blames this all on _post-teenage hormones_ and the fact that he has to toss one off once a day to make up for the fact that he’s not shagging anyone in this damn town.

Not yet.

“D’you want me to get you anything?  An extra pillow?  Some more blankets?” Zayn inquires, _maybe my phone number_ and _somewhere we can be alone_ he tacks on silently in his head, grinning.

Liam smiles, honestly, and his jaw his sharp and his nose has an adorable slope and the last time Zayn was this enamored with anyone was – well, never.  He reckons that’s rather amateurish and daft and incredibly dangerous.

“No, ‘m good,” Liam whispers, slouching further onto the bed, pushing back into the pillows with his chin tilted up to look at Zayn.  “Thank you.”

Zayn nods and that need for a cigarette and shit coffee fades off when he can’t help but thinking about needing this boy and a more comfortable bed for them to lie on instead.

Fucking idiot.

Zayn turns to leave but the sound of Liam clearing his throat, still too soft, stops him.  He glances over his shoulder to find shy eyes, burning cheeks, teeth grabbing at an already bruised bottom lip.  He looks considering and Zayn thinks no one has looked so ordinary but breathtaking before.

“I’ll see you around, right?” Liam asks, the sound a little strangled like his throat is constricting around every word.

Zayn smirks, his nose scrunching up some.

“Might be nice.”

Liam beams, those large eyes even wider.  “It would.  Maybe you could come by the University?  Catch a game?”

Zayn pouts his lips a little, rubbing at the nape of his neck and they wade in the silence until Liam looks like he regrets offering and Zayn hates that.

“Yeah.  Still a bit new around here so, maybe, that’d be nice.”

Something lights up in Liam’s face again, the cool breath of moonlight stroking his cheek until Zayn can see the way his eyes crinkle.

“Almost every Friday and Saturday night.  At the stadium.  I could save you tickets,” Liam offers quickly, shoulders tensing upward like he’s completely embarrassed at how earnest he sounds.

Zayn snorts, shrugging.  “Will you remember me?”

Liam lifts his brow, his smile a little softer.  “Of course.  I’ll tell them to save a ticket for Zayn – “

“Malik,” Zayn finishes, dropping his chin a little.  “Zayn Malik.”

Liam nods quickly, grinning until his cheeks are pushing his eyes shut.  “Like Dr. Malik?”

Zayn swallows, pulling at his shirt and dragging a foot across the ground.  “Like her son.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Liam gasps and he’s wide-eyed with a quirk to his lips.  “She’s done so much for me nephew.  I didn’t know she had a son.”

Zayn shrugs, craving a cigarette and dead air because this room is full of _life_ suddenly, everything too bright and begging him to _stay, stay right here_.

He decides against that, taking slow steps toward the door again.  He shoves his hands into his pockets, blinking at Liam over his shoulder before saying, “See you around, yeah?”

Liam sighs happily, nodding.  “I hope so.”

Zayn doesn’t respond to that because his tongue is heavy with a _‘if you only knew’_ and he scurries out of the room before that trickle of sweat running down his spine reminds him that this boy’s already captivated him in ways he’ll never be able to explain to Ant or Danny when he gets the fuck out of this place.

**

He thinks it’s a bit unfair the way this boy – _Liam_ – attacks his senses and he’ll quickly deny that he’s been musing about that smile, that damn jaw, the way his eyebrows look, or the shape of his cheeks.  He cheats himself a victory of being noncommittal about this boy, except he asks around a little too much about the Payne’s now and Mary teases him endlessly because _‘I’ve sort of got a bird back home’_ keeps ringing off her lips like a taunt rather than a joke.

Zayn finds himself lingering around in Noah’s room for half of his shifts now, sitting on the edge of his stiff bed while Noah colors and looks up curiously at Zayn with big, cinnamon eyes that remind Zayn so much of – when the fuck did this happen?

He hums quietly to Noah, trading verses of Bruno Mars for hints of Ne-Yo until Noah’s calm at night and he grows so fond of this little boy when he curls up to Zayn’s side for _the Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh_ and Zayn manages to convince Noah that there’s excitement in Power Rangers, though he’s not completely convinced Noah’s in love with the program.

His mum doesn’t give him shit about taking kips in Noah’s bed because, surprisingly, Noah sleeps with him for bits and scraps of it.  He wakes to her smiling adoringly like she’s pictured this – her son with a son of his own and those kind of fairy tales always seemed so pretentious to him.

But he sort of likes the way Noah’s all warm and cuddly and insanely happy when Zayn tickles his side when he sings out, _‘Zay, please, Pooh.’_

He stiffens a little when Noah struggles around words or ignores his presence to play with his trains because he doesn’t understand _distracted_ or _manners_ or _interaction_.  He kisses the top of Noah’s head until he stops stuttering and frustration grips him when he can’t tell Zayn the things he wants.

“Take your time babe,” Zayn tells him softly when they’re seated on the ground, feet tucked beneath them and a line of trains surrounding their bodies.  He brushes curls from Noah’s eyes and waits, patiently, until Noah nods and tries again, a little more successful but still imperfect.

Zayn pretends not to watch the halls from the nurse’s station for Liam to return, chews on his thumbnail and waves off the way Mary looks at him so affectionately like he’s waiting on some sort of _teenage dream_ to appear.  He’s not sixteen, horny, and looking for a date to the school dance.

Instead, he’s nineteen, equally horny, and hoping just to find an excuse to walk through the center of town with Liam tucked into his side, their hands clasped.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Marry announces, coy and cheeky as she passes the nurse’s station.  She winks at him when his lips curl into a confused expression, brow lowering and she says, “And might I say – nice job.  He’s a favorite around here.”

Zayn drops his sketchbook into his lap, pushing at his glasses with his feet kicked up on the desk, peeking over the counter and oxygen plays hide and seek with his lungs when he spots Liam in the distance.  The flicker of a smile that touches his lips, blush already settling in like it’s missed this space between his cheeks, and he folds his arms in anticipation and eagerness.

“Hey,” Liam says, low like he’s supposed to be respectful of the patients at this time of night.  He leans those strong arms on the station, inching over to grin at Zayn like _I’ve missed you_ is a frequent phrase he attaches to seeing Zayn.

“Vas happenin’,” Zayn says, a bit foolish and childlike and he loves the wave of Liam’s laughter.

Liam bites carefully at his lip, rubbing at his cheek, looking wide-eyed and contemplative.

“You haven’t been to a game yet,” Liam mentions, avoiding formalities and awkwardness though his voice is still a bit strangled by shyness.

Zayn drags his fingers through his hair lazily, wrecking what’s left of his quiff.  “How would you know?  ‘m sure there’s hundreds of Uni kids and families and spectators preventing you from finding me.”

“I’ve _looked_ ,” Liam admits and he ducks his head, smirking so absently like he can’t control it.

Zayn snorts, tipping his head back.  “You have?”

Liam nods slowly, looking up through soft lashes.  “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Zayn repeats, rocking in his chair.  He shrugs when Liam blinks bright eyes at him.  “Thought about it.”

“Did you?”

Zayn nods immediately and now he feels daft and uncontrollably smitten with this little shit.  It’s discouraging, really, the way his heart decides to kick up the rate at which it pulses and he’s sort of hoping that smile Liam gives him is a secret they share.

“Would you come if I asked again?” Liam wonders, tracing little shapes over the desk while blush beats against quietly against those round cheeks.

Zayn lifts his brow.  “Are you gonna?”

Liam laughs softly, blinking at Zayn like _get over yourself_ but it comes out so pretty and delicate when he says, “Yes.  So will you?”

Zayn holds back the _‘yes’_ on his lips to rock in the silence between them, little looks that keep challenging the other to lift their smiles a little higher.  He can’t help the quirk of his lips and Liam, fuck, keeps grinning like he wants to run away but refuses to as long as he has Zayn’s attention.

It’s fucking mad and incredible and, suddenly, Zayn doesn’t want to remember that Noah’s going home tomorrow and seeing Liam here won’t seem so plausible anymore.

“When?”

Liam’s eyes light up like a dusting of an early sunrise, an orange fireball blistering in pink skies.

“Saturday,” Liam suggests, leaning in a little closer, arms folding one on top of the other, teeth nipping at a pink lip.  “We’ve got a match Saturday against one of our rivals and you’ll fall in love with the roar of the crowd.”

_Doubt it_ , Zayn thinks but he smiles anyway.  He careens to the pound of his heart and scuffs his trainers on the desk in some form of rebellion.

“Saturday,” he says softly, lips curling into a grin.

Liam nods, sighing out content.  “You’ll come, right?”

Zayn laughs, fingers tangling in his hair until it’s a mess and he doesn’t care this time.  He just needs a distraction from the way that smile sets a fire inside of his belly and the numbness that folds down his spine.

“To see you,” Zayn declares, sucking in a sharp breath when Liam looks a little shocked and electric, “not the game.  My baba loves the sport but ‘m not really into it.”

“I can make you.”

Zayn pretends not to notice the way darkness frames Liam’s round brown eyes or the way his tongue darts out to lick at his lips.  There’s a pulse of heat down his chest, his dull nails scratching at his scalp until the ache overrides the sudden need to wrap his lips around Liam’s cock and watch those eyes go darker.

“There’s a few rules,” Liam insists after a few beats of silence and _sexual tension_ would be a proper name for this if he thought that, maybe, this boy actually was into lads.  Or Zayn.

“Rules,” Zayn repeats, curling his tongue around the letters.

Liam nods, his face going slack and warm.  “You mustn’t wear the other team’s colors.  You’ve got to wear the school colors.  I don’t want you getting mobbed by angry fans.”

“You’d save me though,” Zayn tells him and he falls in love with the sheepish look Liam gives him, the way he nods while chewing on his lip.  And superheroes and Noah and this incredible boy fit like pieces of well-hung artwork.

“I would,” Liam whispers shyly and he lets out a gush of air that loosens the tension in those already wide shoulders.  “But you have to wear school colors.  It’s only appropriate or bad luck not to.  I sort it’s just tradition or summat.”

_Maybe I should wear your number too_ , Zayn considers, tucking his chin because schoolboy crushes seem so inappropriate at this stage.  Still, he imagines walking down the streets with Liam’s varsity jacket on his shoulders and Liam’s arm around the center of his back.

“What should I wear?” Zayn wonders, picking at the edge of one of his sketches until the paper folds over in the corner.

Liam grins, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, the skin beneath pinking again.  “Black.”

He tilts his lips upward, snorting, and he doesn’t imagine that’ll be hard to pull off.

“Avoid wearing silver or purple though.  Other team’s colors,” Liam adds with a hint of seriousness to his voice that makes Zayn think, quite possibly, this means something to him.

He wonders why it’s starting to mean something to Zayn too.

“Not a problem, mate.  Hate purple,” Zayn says.

Liam gasps, overdramatic, throwing a hand over his chest and looking abashed.  “’s my favorite color.”

Zayn laughs, something glorious spreading over Liam’s face.

“That’s awful,” Zayn tells him and Liam reaches out to flick the end of his trainer.  “’s a shit color, dude.”

“It’s not.”

Zayn lifts his brow, catches the wounded look Liam gives him, and suddenly he thinks about kissing Liam.  He thinks about kissing him and burying his nose in the crook of Liam’s neck while Liam tells him all about the sport and the fans and everything that means this much to Liam.

He swallows, licking at his lips while Liam rests his chin on his knuckles, quiet and brilliantly handsome.

“You really want me there?” Zayn asks because, precipitously, he needs things like assurance and confidence.

“Yeah,” Liam breathes out, so quiet and choked.  “I don’t know but – yeah, Zayn, I’d like that.”

They trade off hesitant smiles and avoid each other’s eyes for too little time until Zayn’s biting his lips raw and Liam’s cheeks are flushed scarlet.  The quiet echoes between them like the opening of something epic and Zayn, forgetfully, pushes his sketchbook open to some scribbling of Batman and Gotham City lights and Liam’s eyes shine like a collection of fireflies.

“I love Batman,” Liam announces, his tone so buoyant that it startles Zayn.  He’s blushing, a shy kid for a moment before ducking his head, rubbing at the back of his neck with shaky fingers.  “I mean, that sounded a bit geeky and I’m – “

Zayn grins, flipping through a few more pages until he’s on the one of a Green Lantern symbol and he gushes about Hal Jordan and the Guardians and he’s sort of enamored with the way Liam smiles through all of it like he gets it.  Like its okay that Zayn’s a complete nerd who loves drawing and comic books and would rather spend a dozen nights in his room with the music on low and an already worn out version of _Batman Begins_ playing in the background.

“You’ll wear black, yeah?” Liam asks, no, _pleads_ when he leans off the counter and they’ve already discussed dozen of potential reasons why a Justice League film should happen.

Zayn’s lips let loose a smile he’s unprepared for and his eyelashes fan over his cheeks like he’s scared to admit he’s still so willing, but only for Liam.

He huffs out a breath like he’s annoyed when he’s happy and warm and so fucking stuck on this boy.

“You probably won’t even notice me,” Zayn teases, his breath hitching as Liam moves away – _too far, come back_ – and he’s still rubbing at the nape of his neck like a five year old.

“I will,” Liam promises, cheeks afire with his smile again.  “Been looking for you at each game.”

The admission aches in Zayn’s chest and hollows out Liam’s eyes and the stretch of awkwardness between them feels like an ocean.

He snorts at the small wave of Liam’s fingers that’s a _farewell_ but feels like an _‘til next time_ that Zayn surrenders to when Liam stumbles down the hall toward the exit.  Zayn’s quick to locate his pack of cigarettes and move in the opposite direction for night air and smoke swallowing this feeling in his lungs.

**

There’s a pulse, a buzz about University life Zayn’s never understood.

Not that he’s, you know, been to University much.  He’s let Danny and Ant sneak him into a few parties back home that were mostly flat beer, plastic cups of Coke and rum, stupid games that seem endless with the point of getting drunker, bladdered girls hanging off of whomever will give them attention, and messy blowjobs in the toilets.  And maybe he’s snuck down to campus to browse through the library, find bits of Tennyson and Byron to fill his days with between _teenage wasteland_ and _forever young_.

Things here, on this campus, are a little different.

There’s a flood of people moving toward the stadium, already loud and anxious and it’s the procession at a funeral with all of the black and strips of gold.  Some of the Uni kids are half-drunk on vodka, buzzing from things like _adrenaline_ and _solidarity_.  Children dance around the car parks with their parents chatting and ‘ _another win already in the books chaps’_ is spread around like the best piece of gossip everyone’s already heard.  It feels like the entire town is converging on one place – the small shop owners, the clerks at the petrol stations, young and old, and the academic crowd blends easily with the sports with one common goal: _support_.

Zayn trades off chewing on his lip and smoking a fag nearby, fingers shaking, and scuffing his boots on the curb.  He gives himself a quick onceover in the reflection of some too fancy SUV and it wasn’t really hard to find anything black in his small collection of clothes.  He pulls at the collar of his jacket and it’s the edge of spring but he still finds it necessary to wear something leather.  The collar of his shirt is stretched out and slung low on his collarbone and he remembers the last time Ant wore it to a party, some bird spilling her vodka orange juice all over it.  The scent of citrus still remains, drawing up a small smile on his chapped lips.

He sniffs at the air, tastes the thickness of something unfamiliar – _team spirit_ , he thinks.  He picks at the cheaply done holes in his tight black jeans and takes a slow drag of smoke that pushes down the nerves in his chest, momentarily.

He was more than a little shocked when he ducked off into the stadium for a second, searching out the ticket booth, and he had stared at the dishy blonde behind the counter who offered him the sole ticket left for him.

“So you’re the _Zayn_ that he’s been leaving tickets behind for,” she teased and Zayn bit at the corner of his lip until the skin broke, nodding and fighting down blush.  Her smile – mocking and slick with red lipstick – reminded him of something he’d see on Waliyha whenever she would figure out whom he was crushing on at school.

“Thank you,” he choked out, curling the ticket in his closed fist and her smile lifted an inch higher.

He hates how she winked at him, leaned forward, whispering, “You know, he doesn’t leave many tickets behind.  Maybe for his mum or sisters, his dad.  But no one else and he’s left a ticket for you Friday and Saturday for the past week.”

Zayn laughs to himself, taking another puff before pulling the crinkled up ticket from his jacket pocket.  He thinks about offering it to some Uni student he’ll indefinitely pass on his walk back home, maybe just tossing it in the bin because what the fuck was he doing?

Did he honestly think he’d fit into this town with their sports and unity and sense of belonging because they’ve all known each other since pacifiers and reception?

He coughs out clouds of blue smoke, scratching at his nearly shaven off scruff – not that he was _trying_ to look sharp for Liam but he might’ve spent a little longer in the shower, studied his outfit at least _three_ times before slipping it on, added a little more product to his quiff to make it shiny and stiff, possibly took the time to shave his three-day old stubble off – and he inhales something that makes him feel _alive_.  It tingles his ribs, fits itself into his lungs until he doesn’t mind the cheers already coming from inside the stadium or the way his heart is echoing _this will make him smile_ and _you fancy this damn lad too much_ between beats.

Still, he’s hesitating about going in.  He takes three steps toward the stadium only to turn around and take eight steps back toward the curb, puffing through a cigarette and a half in the space between.  And he hates how his heart drums louder than any of the screams filling the sky from the stadium.

He inhales a deep breath of small town air – still so fresh and pulsing – and tips his head back to look at the night’s sky, large stars looking brighter and winking at him in ways the stars back in Bradford never did.  He swallows and is only half-startled when a voice says, “Oi, if you’re gonna run, do it now.  Once you’re in that place, there’s no escaping.  You’re in it for life.”

Zayn blows a small cloud from the side of his mouth, dropping his chin, and his eyes fix on a pale-skinned blonde with too bright blue eyes and the kind of lopsided smile that would be adorable if Zayn thought anything was adorable outside of Safaa – and Noah, these days.

He tilts his head a little to admire the boy, his cheeks patted scarlet and he’s got a too big footie jersey on that sort of hangs off his small form with loose sweats and ivory white high top trainers.  His sun-bleached blonde hair stands tall away from its dark roots in a swirl of fluff that’s half-quiff, half-disaster.  His smile is too broad, awkward in ways Zayn can’t describe but he’s the kind of different Zayn likes.

He won’t admit that now, but maybe, given time.

Zayn blinks at him, curious.  “You going in?”

The kid nods happily, all laughter and an even grander smile that pulls at the corners of Zayn’s mouth until he’s grinning too.

“’m Niall,” he says with a lilt to his accent, an extended hand and Zayn takes it slowly, still a little weary of that smirk.  “I’m in the sports medicine program and I’m Irish, if ye can’t tell, and your new best mate.”

Zayn lifts his brow, lines wrinkling his forehead, and Niall’s handshake is as firm as his statements.  It draws up a sputtering of laughter from Zayn and he finishes off his cigarette before eyeing this kid like _what the fuck_ and _are you for real_?

“What makes you think I’m looking for one?” Zayn asks, pulling his jacket closed when Niall lets his hand go.

Niall shrugs, offbeat charm glowing.  “You’re not from around here, I can tell.  You’re not suited in Uni gear and you’ve got this whole dark and mysterious thing going,” he says, waving a hand in front of Zayn as if to fill in the rest, “Most people from around here are a little more, I dunno, _readable_?  That’s a word?”

Zayn grins, nodding.  “Nice analysis.”

Niall laughs, booming and loud and it startles a few girls giggling toward the stadium.

“’m pretty good at figuring people out.  Me mum hates it but it comes in handy, you know,” Niall says, nudging Zayn’s ribs with his elbow.  Zayn doesn’t flinch but considers shoving this too friendly kid away.  He huffs out a breath of dry air instead, licking at his lips.

“So am I right?  Are you dark and mysterious?”

Zayn chuckles, shaking his head.  “Hardly.”

“But you’re not from around here, right bro?” Niall asks, leaning in like curiosity is embedded into everything he does.

Zayn lifts his brow again and, suddenly, he needs another cigarette.

“’m not,” Zayn puffs out, schooling his expression from annoyed to something a little more pleasant.  “Bradford.”

“Oh, a Yorkshire chap, yeah?  Nice,” Niall hums, rocking on his heels with that same smile.

It would be irritating to Danny or Ant but it’s like a taste of home, something geeky and uncontrollable about it.  Zayn thinks Niall might be right, clairvoyance be damned.

“So,” Niall drags out, nodding toward the stadium, and Zayn fixes his eyes on passing cars, smaller crowds of black and gold, the way the trees shake with a passing breeze.  Anything but that damn stadium and promises of the boy he’s so caught up in on the inside.

“You gonna go in?  Been watching you go back and forth for a while now,” Niall states, his brow crinkling a little like he’s considering.

“A bit stalkerish, huh,” Zayn says low, arching an eyebrow at Niall.

Niall huffs out a thick laugh, smacking at Zayn’s arm and looking completely chuffed at the notion.

“I’ve been called worse,” he teases, knocking their shoulders together, and Zayn’s barely noticed when he got this close.

“Right,” Zayn whispers, scuffing the toe of his boot on the curb again.  “’m thinking about it.”

“You should,” Niall tells him, teetering from foot to foot like being still pains him.  “There’s nothing like the footie game here.  It’s, man, it’s _magical_.  It’s fucking dope.  Like, I swear, the way this town gets about its team is just – “

Zayn grins, rubbing at his chin to settle the laughter in his chest.  “It’s that sick, bro?”

Niall nods, shaking with excitement.  “I’m telling you.  It’s the one thing about this shit place that you’ve got to experience at least once.  Oh and the Chinese takeaway at the square on campus.  And the fucking slushies’ too.  Crazy flavors.”

A laugh stumbles over Zayn’s lips, his head shaking.  He kicks at Niall’s shoe this time, smirking when Niall’s eyes go bright, and that warm feeling in Zayn’s chest reminds him of being a kid and running for the playground a few streets away from his house.

It’s enough – that smile, those eyes like starlight, the way Niall goes on and on about the game – before he’s shyly following Niall into the stadium.  He’s startled a little by the noise, the boom of the crowd, the way before they even find their seats he’s overwhelmed by the sea of _black, black, black_.  He pulls his jacket closer to his chest, even though it’s too warm and the sky is just a faded off purple, as if it can shield him from the burn of cheers and eager fans.  It doesn’t and he sort of regrets his decision seconds into the rush of adrenaline that guides the chants louder and louder.

He misses half of the introductions from the loud speakers – he catches things like _the fireball Samuels, Mazzy Maz, the magical Tom, ladies love our resident senior Ben_ – while Niall guides him down the shallow steps toward their seats that are close, too close.  He settles into his seat while everyone around him stands and barks and applauds before the game’s even started.  His lips feel raw from teeth that try to bite away nerves and Niall’s grinning, leaning forward in his seat and cheering like some sort of rock concert.

“ – and we’ve got number seventeen, Louis Tomlinson,” comes over the speakers and the rattle of the stadium grows, Zayn leaning back to eye a kid with thick brown fringe running across his forehead, eyes bluer than Niall’s, the kind of grin that’s a bit cocky if not completely confident running across the field.  He moves like water over ice, fluidity in everything as he passes the ball to one of his teammates, waving to the crowd like a beauty queen.

Zayn snorts, rubbing at his lips and missing that cigarette he should’ve had before he walked in.

“Watch out!  It’s a Tommo!” comes echoing off a large section on the other side of the stadium and Zayn narrows his eyes at a sizeable group of Uni kids in all black, half their faces painted, holding up signs and large cutouts of a few of the players.  They’re swaying, barking out loud chants for each player – _‘Hey Mazzy Maz,’_ _‘Samuels on fire’_ – and dancing to the beats of Queen and Miley Cyrus.

“Who’re they?” Zayn wonders, jerking his head toward the crowd and something washes over Niall’s face like _shock_ and _worship_.

“That’s the Block Party,” Niall hums over the thunder of the crowd, leaning into Zayn.  His grin is a little manic, eyes wide like streaming bursts of azure, and he sighs before saying, “They’re some sort of secret society,” Zayn thinks of the Legion of Doom and vintage Saturday cartoons, “of University chaps and birds that come together to support the footie team.  They have to select you to be a part of the group and they hold random auditions throughout the year.  It’s pretty exclusive.”

Zayn lifts his brow, puckering his lips.  “Sounds a bit snobbish.”

Niall chuckles, shaking his head.  “Not even, bro.  It’s wicked ace.  Like, they have one for every sport at the school but the Block Party?  They’re royalty.  It’s all nerds and sports and med students and fucking better than fraternity life, I promise.”

He sounds so enthusiastic and Zayn pauses on a breath, biting at his lip.  “Why aren’t you – “

Niall sighs before Zayn can finish, his expression a bit resigned as he leans back.

“Missed the last tryouts.  Like I said, this lot is pretty secretive and getting an invite is a bit hard,” Niall explains, tipping his head back.  “But I’m gonna make it one day.  ‘s gonna happen, mate, I promise.”

“I bet,” Zayn says with a small nod, breathing in the glow of the stadium while Louis crosses the field again, playing a quick pickup game with one of the other players – Andy?  Stan?  Zayn’s not really sure – and the sound of a voice echoes higher than the rest of the crowd.

“Let’s go Lou Bear!  C’mon mate, show ‘em what you got.”

Zayn blinks at the boy two rows down with thick but soft-looking curls and eyes resembling fresh algae beneath the sea and he’s tall but slim, built in all of the right places.  His jeans are too skinny – Zayn wonders if his legs even _breathe_ in those – and he’s got on an oversized school jumper with _‘Tommo’_ stitched in gold on the back.

He catcalls when Louis sweeps the fringe off his forehead, dimples defined with a fist pumping in the air.  His cheeks turn a soft shade of pink – like hearts on Valentine’s Day – when Louis searches the crowd and waves to him, all glory without the arrogance.

Niall grins, resting his elbows on his knees with his feet kicked up on the seat in front of him.

“Harry Styles,” Niall whistles, winking at Zayn.  “Just a fresher but already one of the most sought out pieces of arse ‘round these parts.  He’s from Holmes Chapel but moved up his last year of college.  Cheeky bastard, I say.”

Zayn nods, shifting a little in his seat while Harry eyes Louis like – like the heavens and earth cease to exist when Louis moves.

“Is he best mates with Tomlinson?” Zayn inquires, studying the way they keep trading off little glances between ball passing and the crowd chanting.

Niall snorts, hiding his face a little in the sleeve of his jersey.  “Not quite,” Niall explains, fitting his eyes on Harry and the way he’s nibbling on his bottom lip when Louis does laps around the pitch.  “They’re a bit more than that.  Like I said, Harry Styles has been some sort of trophy a dozen of these people have tried to win since the summer before last but Louis?  Louis fucking Tomlinson has his ways.”

“Boyfriends?” Zayn questions with an arched eyebrow and a small glint to his eyes.

Niall barks out a laugh, slinging an arm around Zayn’s shoulders that’s too tight but far from mocking or condescending.

“More like,” Niall leers at Harry for a moment before grinning out, “what do they call it in the States?  Friends with benefits?”

“Fuck buddies,” Zayn says dryly and he snickers, his nose crinkling at the way Niall’s eyes go a little wide.

Niall nods, smiling back.  “Nice word choice.”

Zayn shrugs and they go a little quiet after that, focusing on the other team and the way everyone’s shaking hands, laughing at stupid plays, sipping on Gatorade between drills on the pitch.

“And that,” Niall says between explaining the teams’ weakness and strengths, pointing out the various chants from the Block Party that refer to certain players, “is Cher Lloyd.  She’s a goddess, I swear, mate.  Fucking fit and incredible.”

Zayn follows Niall’s eyes to a small section a few rows down to a brunette who’s a little bit punk rock with her big hoop earrings, chunky hair tousled to one side, skulls and crossbones on her jacket, and as much ink as Zayn running up her arms.  She’s got gloss on her lips, too wide brown eyes, and the kind of sideways smile that reminds Zayn of Waliyha.  She’s sat with two other girls – Jesy and Jade, Zayn leans later on though he doesn’t really care, honestly – who are as equally pretty but there’s something about Cher that stands out.

She’s _‘I don’t give a fuck about you’_ in the best kind of way.

“She’s _sick,_ man,” Zayn says with a small laugh, nudging Niall’s shoulder and Niall smiles adoringly at her, though she never looks their way.

“Yeah, she is,” Niall sighs, still looking fond and warm, “but hands off, bro.  I’ve been chasing that hot piece of arse for months now.”

“Stalking probably,” Zayn teases and laughter bubbles out of him when Niall flicks his knee.  “’sides, she’s not really my thing.”

Zayn hates how the admission slips from his lips so easily with Niall.  He feels half-baked and devoid of shyness like he’s drunk on this feeling in the stadium.  He quirks an eyebrow at the way Niall leans back, wide grin and rosy cheeks that look so incredibly friendly.  He pinches one, trying to peel away the questions in Niall’s eyes and they merely grin at each other.

“Perfect, mate,” Niall cheers quietly, knocking is knee against Zayn’s, their feet brushing on the back of the seats in front of them.  “No competition for any of these bird’s affection.  Not that, y’know, you were much competition.”

Zayn laughs, tipping his head back, and he hasn’t been this _relaxed_ since he came to this shit town that’s nothing but University and couples who grow old together.

“So,” Niall grins out, leaning into Zayn until his head rests on Zayn’s shoulder, “is it strictly lads or – “

Zayn giggles, pinching Niall’s side and this is nothing like being with Ant or Danny.  Suddenly, he doesn’t need vodka or Jack Daniels or three packs of cigarettes to share between them or the noise of Bradford.

“Undecided,” Zayn huffs out, still smiling.  He focuses his eyes on the green of the pitch and his ears tune into the noise of the music filtering between announcements and the buzz of the Block Party – _We fell in love in stereo. Then he broke my heart in stereo_.

“Don’t feel the need to, y’know, focus on that right now,” Zayn adds, sighing quietly.  The rock of the static around them buzzes against his skin and, instantly, he’s too hot in this leather jacket.  Blush creeps up his neck, decorates his cheeks before he says, “But, for your benefit, it’s more lads than girls.  Definitely boys.”

Niall snorts, nodding, and Zayn doesn’t feel the need to say more.  He merely leans closer to Niall and refuses to flinch when Niall rests a friendly hand on Zayn’s thigh, patting out phrases like _it’s okay mate_ and _I don’t care what you like as long as you’re my friend_.

There’s a pulse to the stadium just before the game starts, where the announcer rattles off the clubs sponsoring tonight’s game, the stats, the players and his heart stills, breaths caught in his throat when he hears, “Also, starting tonight is your favorite redshirt fresher… Liam Payne!”

“Payno smash!” the Block Party calls, loud and deep, a cheap imitation of the Hulk and Zayn grins for a moment until everything halts, still-frame and magical, when Liam runs onto the pitch with a sheepish grin and a hand on the nape of his neck.

Zayn feels it catch in his throat, the corners of his mouth lifting on their own accord, and the rush of his heart aches in ways he can’t quite decipher.  He watches Liam instead, the way he wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, drawn into a small hug from Louis who smiles into Liam’s shoulder like some sort of brotherly bond was created a long time ago.

He bites down on his lip at the smile that slicks across Liam’s lips as he waves to the crowd, still shy and overwhelmed at the noise they create just for him.  Zayn smiles into his knuckles and slinks down in his seat, focused on this boy who bounces the ball off of his knee, his chest, does keepie-uppie’s while Louis bounces around and Andy howls at the sound of a whistle.

“What’s a redshirt?” Zayn asks, nudging Niall as the crowd settles a little for the start of the first half.

Niall smirks, bouncing his shoulders with the energy of the stadium.  He explains it all in hushed tones, like it’s a secret or maybe his voice is too loud during the opening kickoff, and Zayn watches Liam while listening.  He nods along to the concept of a fresher delaying their participation in a sport for the first academic year in order to play past their eligibility.  He gets it, really, the way coaches scout players who have the potential to be something more than just the few years at Uni, trying to get a degree and move on.

“He really was the best thing they got,” Niall says, dragging his thumb up the seam of Zayn’s jeans.  “Loads of other Universities wanted him ‘cause he’s that good.  Best all-around player the team has.  He was redshirting at the beginning of the year but coach put him in when that dumb fuck Nate decided to get completely pissed at some holiday party and thought skiing down a flight of stairs was a bloody brilliant idea.”

Zayn nods, smirking until his lips tip sideways and he can’t help the way he looks at Liam like he hung the fucking moon in the sky.  Maybe the stars too.

“They said he chose to go to school here for family purposes,” Niall adds, nudging Zayn’s shoulder.  “Don’t know what that means – “

Zayn does, something pulling at his lips until he frowns a little.  He wonders how many other sacrifices Liam has made in order to be so close to Noah.

“ – but I heard he’s quite single.  Too focused on the game and books and family,” Niall finishes, knocking his knee against Zayn’s.  Zayn blinks up at him through his lashes, chewing his lip and Niall grins before adding, “Some say he’s not really into the lasses.  Not that I’ve asked, but you know.  People talk.”

Zayn hums, pretends that last part doesn’t really matter but the flutter of his heart says otherwise.  There’s a numbness running down his fingers, his legs, the center of his chest, and he turns back to the game, eyes still carefully following every one of Liam’s movements.

“And I see you’ve already found a favorite player, dude,” Niall teases with a half-bitten smirk, laughing manically when Zayn snaps his head in Niall’s direction.  Niall slides an arm around Zayn’s too tense shoulders and sighs.  “It’s cool, bro.  If I was into dicks, I’d want his too.  Nice kid and, fuck, he’s amazing at the game.  Probably got great stamina.”

Zayn shrugs Niall’s arm away with one of those nervous laughs that schoolgirls have when teased about their crushes.  It tastes sickeningly sweet over his tongue and, yeah, he’s never been this fucking bashful.  Blush kisses at his cheeks like morning dew on the grass and he leans forward to watch the game rather than admit to Niall he _might_ be into Liam.

And that might seems so big when he watches Liam chase the ball across the pitch, moving like the wind through a field of tall grass.

**

He’s never been into sports, even though Yasser spent years trying to invest him into them.  And maybe his room back home was decorated in Manchester United posters to impress his baba and he spent a few Saturdays in front of the telly with Waliyha tucked into his side, Yasser grinning, and Andy Murray chasing hits down the court.  He prefers Marvel comics and cups of tea and a sketchbook in the backyard to football and the patriotism of the Olympic Games and he thinks, belatedly, it’s probably just another thing his baba is disappointed in.

He thinks that list is far too immense to really view objectively.

Zayn finds it hard not to soak in the atmosphere or the chants the Block Party howls out every time the team makes a goal or goes up for a penalty kick.  He’s drawn into the crowd, that home field glow that echoes off the adults and the way the children dance along to every song that plays for the in-between, the sharing of Gatorade bottles on the pitch like _brotherhood_ and _unity_ are inked into their skin.

Harry’s a little louder through the second half when Louis controls the ball most of the time.  Even Cher stands up to bark at one of the ref’s when he makes a bad call and there’s chants all around when Andy passes the ball so easily to Liam, a breakaway play that has Liam dashing up the green field with a grin and an effortless goal.

“See, the key is he’s so versatile,” Niall explains between large gulps of Coke and handfuls of popcorn, “The kid has an eye for things.  He’s a brilliant midfielder and, fuck, he’s a bloody great attacker but his strength is being a defender.  Nothing really gets past him.  I swear he’s a genius.”

Zayn grins, leaning back, and for a second when the air is too thin and his heart rattles on the wrong beat, he thinks Liam catches him from the middle of the pitch.  His fingers curl in his lap and Liam’s looking away just that quickly, a sheen of sweat reflecting the bright lights of the stadium and Zayn thinks the stars are in those brown eyes.

His skin is blistering, buzzing when he shrugs off his jacket.  Niall traces the ink up his forearm, fingers rubbing at the _ZAP_ and down around the microphone and Zayn admires the tattoos littered over Louis’ arm for a second before finding four chevrons and keeping his eyes there.  He wonder if Liam’s fingers are calloused or if his palms are rough.  He wants to lick away the sweat on the hollow of his neck and fit his fingers into the grooves of Liam’s toned back until he finds his hips and begs Liam to fuck him across that green, green grass.

He shifts in his seat, palming his cock until it throbs a little less, and he bites off a smile at the way Liam blocks another play with the kind of effervescence that fills your lungs after a rollercoaster with too many loops and turns.

Kings of Leon fills the stadium between plays and timeouts, Zayn sighing at the way Liam tips his head back to gulp down green Gatorade.  He watches the shape of his lips and the pull of muscle in his arms, something wicked coiling inside of him because he imagines those arms around him in the night.  Those lips whispering filthy things into his skin until he believes Liam could break him just to piece everything back together.

“Payno smash,” he chants quietly with the Block Party when Liam runs back onto the field for a corner kick and he drags his fingers nervously through his hair when Niall eyes him incredulously.

“Don’t fucking say it,” Zayn hisses and Niall’s laugh rumbles louder than the applause from the attendants.

And he’s not certain what leads him to stand up and cheer for Liam when he makes a catch off of some weak pass between the other team, the way he’s howling, and fucking smiling when Liam tips the ball off to Louis, the two moving in tandem.  Maybe he’s loud and into it and sucking in a sharp breath when Louis almost misses the pass back to Liam but they chase the ball away and around a few more players.

He’s squeezing Niall’s hand tight when Liam makes a goal, shaking, and this is _not_ happening.  No.

But it is and it fills his blood like marijuana in his chest until he’s lightheaded and smirking.

“That’s why he’s the Payner,” Niall calls out and Zayn’s half-buzzed on it all.

He barely notices Harry’s wide eyes on them from two rows down, careful and observant, and Zayn wonders for half a second if maybe he’s become the living definition of obvious.

**

The stars sit heavy but look soft like glowing embers in the old mauve sky after the game and, Zayn thinks, that is what this town is – an open vessel for overlooked beautiful things.

Zayn blows out quiet puffs from his dying cigarette under the warmth of the orangey street lights above them while Niall sips on a beer he nicked off some sixteen year olds he threatened to rat out.  There’s still a buzz in the streets from the game and some of the Uni kids stumble down the streets, half drunk on victory and dancing into the way of passing cars in the streets.  Zayn grins at them all, rubbing soft fingers along his bottom lip before finishing off his cigarette and flicking away the rest into a bush.

“Told ye, bro,” Niall cheers, leaning back from where he sits on the curb, kicking his feet out with a grin.  “One game and you’ll be hooked.”

“Who says I’m that enamored?” Zayn teases and he sees the contemplative look on Niall’s face like he’s trying to understand the word.  It draws out a small laugh from deep in Zayn, his boot nudging Niall’s trainer.  “’m not hooked, mate.”

“You are,” Niall sings out, laughing childishly.  “If not on the game, definitely on the Payno.”

Zayn blushes and kicks Niall’s foot, hard, before shaking his head.  “Piss off.”

Niall hums, pleasantly, and gives him a look that doesn’t call for words.

“You’re full of shit, bro,” Zayn grins out, cheeks already aching from hours of smiling at nothing – _or Liam_.

“And you’re a horrid liar,” Niall says mockingly, taking another full sip of beer with red cheeks and wide eyes.  “Admit it.”

Zayn agrees silently with a smile, shrugging a shoulder while his fingers rub impatiently along the fabric of his jeans.  He rubs at the short hairs on the nape of his neck and fights with a smile when Niall stretches his lips wide to grin behind his bottle of beer.

“Do you fancy him?” Niall asks, inquisitive and serious for a moment.

It unsettles Zayn, his feet scuffing on the gravel, fingers twitching, and his heart pushes words against his tongue that won’t force past his lips.  He sniffs at smoke-soaked air instead, looking away, and he thinks its admission enough to quiet Niall’s other thoughts.

He thinks it’s stupid and too quick and _no one falls in love at first sight_ spins through his mind because it’s something Danny told him years ago when he was crushing on Diana, with her gold-green eyes and delicate fingers.

He swallows something awful and _unfair_ , he thinks, when he spots the small crowd hanging off the corner too many steps too close.

He notices Louis first, Harry leaning on his shoulder even though he’s too tall for things like that, and there’s a collection of rowdy footie players with a boy linked into the background with a buzz cut, round almond eyes, and the kind of smile that catches Zayn off guard so easily.  His fingers flex at his side, his stomach coiling around his liver, and Zayn pulls in a deep breath at the way the orange lights make his skin so much tanner and that birthmark on his neck stands out even more.

They’re rolled off into laughter like a neatly spun joint and Niall’s glancing at them now, a little too chuffed like he wants to be a part of that.  It’s a sad form of hero worship that kicks at Zayn’s gut and he pulls in his bottom lip the minute Liam’s eyes meet his from that small distance.

Those few steps, miles and meters and units of measurement he studied in Math years ago, seem like the stretch of the Atlantic when he hears Liam say, a little too loudly, to Louis, “I’ll be back in a sec, Lou.”

He catches the questioning lift of one of Louis’ eyebrows, the way Harry whispers into his ear with a smirk, and the coil of Louis’ voice around a “fancy something different, eh Li,” echoes off Zayn’s eardrums until it’s quiet, quiet against his heart.

Zayn pulls in a sharp breath, Niall’s eyes going wide, and Liam’s grinning in front of him with a shy set to his shoulders and a foot kicking stray rocks into the middle of the street.

“You came,” Liam says a little belatedly with a wide grin and a nervous twitch to his nose.  “I mean, of course you did,” he adds, trying to muster confidence that Zayn doubts exists in those strong bones, standing a little taller like it’ll make a difference.

Zayn snorts, his smile a bit crooked and he hates that it’s just for Liam.

“Said I would,” he says, somewhat hushed, and he ducks his head under the beam of Liam’s grin.  He chews on his thumbnail rather than reaching for that next cigarette and he wants a cup of coffee and the quiet halls of a hospital now.

“Did you,” Liam swallows, a blitz of pink spilling over his cheeks, “did you enjoy it?  I mean, the game, of course.”

_I’d enjoy kissing you in my bed with your dick in my hand_ , Zayn thinks and that feeling – sticky hot and desperate – spreads over his body until he wants out of his leather jacket again.

He shrugs instead of responding, hiding his smile behind white teeth.  “It was chill.”

Niall coughs, rough and loud, and Zayn eyes him with as much venom as he can gather but it does little to slow the grin spreading over Niall’s mouth.

Zayn sighs, rolling his eyes immediately, and his heart doesn’t stick to his ribs when Liam takes a small step closer like this distance is too much.

He thinks it is and swallowing half of Liam’s oxygen feels nice and cool against his insides.

Liam chews on his lip, fingers trembling in the space between them until they bump against Zayn’s knuckles.  They coil just a little until Zayn figures out that they are indeed soft and warm and the right kind of calloused that could rub away the effects of a nice orgasm later on.

“It was ace,” Zayn admits with a sigh, inclining absently but he likes the way Liam doesn’t pull back, closing the gap so easily.

Liam nods, still nibbling at his lip, dragging his eyes over Zayn like they’re thinking the same thing.

“You play proper good,” Zayn adds, eyes crinkling with a laugh to disguise the blush that penetrates his cheeks with little effort.  He blinks at Liam’s smile, the way it’s lopsided, and the way Liam tilts his head to admire Zayn like –

No one’s ever looked at him like that and Waliyha plays in his mind – _suffocation_ – over and over.

Liam giggles, slowed shyness making room for wild abandonment and his thick fingers drag through Zayn’s hair until stiff-product gives away to the pressure.

Zayn whines, trying to pull away but the biggest of part stays for the way Liam’s fingers trail over his scalp, calm all of those bursting nerves inside of him.

“Stop,” Zayn groans with a half-smile, kicking at Liam’s trainers but staying under the force of Liam’s careful fingers.  “I’ll look like shit.”

Liam snorts, his cheeks lifting effortlessly for a smirk.  “You’re already perfect,” comes out as a whisper but Zayn doesn’t have to strain to hear him.

His voice – like the right swirl of honey in your tea and a _good morning_ after a great shag and fingertips down your spine when you’re shaking and on the verge of tears – coats Zayn’s ears and everything underneath his skin is hot, shifting awkwardly.  He licks at his lips, that blush resurfacing and Liam looks at him fondly once more like taking his eyes away would hurt too much.

Zayn’s fingers find the waistband of Liam’s trackies, tugging playfully at the elastic until Liam comes just a little closer, his feet fitting between Zayn’s spread ones.

The moment is cracked, ripping beneath the tides when Niall jumps up happily and fits himself into that small gap that separates them.

“I can’t, fuck, I can’t believe it’s _you_.  I mean, dude, honestly you’re amazing,” Niall gushes, wide-eyed and smiling a little too goofily at Liam.  “The way you play – shit, I wish my knees were still good enough to be on the pitch with you.”

Liam arches a thick eyebrow, anchoring his fingers to the nape of Zayn’s neck and Zayn pretends not to notice the beat they tap out – _take me home, I can’t stop thinking about you, when can I see you again_.

He smirks shyly, separation inevitable, but Zayn’s fingers grip his waist to keep him from losing that kind balance.

“Um,” Liam chews out, nerves evident, “thanks?  I don’t think ‘m all that good.  Just, y’know, love the game.”

Niall nods a little too quickly, dizzying look on his face before he wraps his lips around his beer for another swallow.

“Ye can tell,” Niall says happily, hip checking Liam, and Zayn wants to punch him because the momentum pulls Liam a little too far back, fingers missing skin.  “You’re really making a difference on the team.  Everyone is proper good but you’re like the glue, bro.”

Liam bites at his lip, gives Zayn a quick look like _who is this kid_ that draws up a laugh from Zayn.

“Niall Horan,” Zayn says before Liam can ask, curling his fingers at his side rather than letting them return to Liam’s hip.  “Resident footie expert and, it would seem, your biggest fan.”

Niall grins roughly, blue eyes shining like the start of the night, before resting a heavy hand on Liam’s shoulder.  He gives it a tight squeeze and Liam falls into it with a smile and a breathy laugh.

Zayn pulls his lip between his teeth and listens to Niall and Liam exchange football stories, dreams of going pro, the flaws of the other teams.  He curves into the way Liam’s thumb strokes the side of his neck, brushes over tender spots that make Zayn shiver and he swears Liam’s taking notes, putting a little pressure into those hollowed spaces of his skin where bone doesn’t greet him.

Unconsciously, he shifts closer, and Liam’s warmth and scent – sweat, boyish musk, faded off mint body wash, streams of raspberries like his cologne is a little too sweet – strangle him until he thinks he wants to know him from the outside inward.  He counts out the beats of his heart behind a smile – seven beats too many – while Niall suggests new formations and goes on about Liam’s first game, the way he vomited loads of Gatorade on the sidelines from nerves, and Liam’s blushing and nodding.

“Got right sick but,” Liam pauses, tilting his head some, “it was rather exciting being out there in a real live game.”

“You were so gangster,” Niall chimes, the curves of his smile lifting higher.  “Seventeen assists, man.  At least twelve blocks and that one goal you made in the second half – “

Liam glows, shrinking in on himself and Zayn thinks it’s the most tragically beautiful thing he’s ever seen.  It drives him mad and kissing this boy in the middle of the street under the glare of some car’s high beams and the thunder of victory sets white noise as the soundtrack to his thoughts.

“Hey Payno,” Andy calls out from far too many meters away and _go the fuck away you idiot_ rages through Zayn’s mind when Liam’s eyes flicker off of him to look in the direction of that booming voice.  “We’re headed to the pub for the usual celebration.  Come on you donut.”

Liam nods slowly, pushing out a smile that looks put on but Zayn’s not sure he’d know the difference.

Not yet.

There’s a hand on his hip, the warmth spreading like wildfire, and Zayn looks up at Liam rather than the places they’re connected and where they’re not.

Liam licks at his lips, nerves still glass-sharp under his steely exterior and it’s endearing to Zayn, honestly.

“Noah’s out of the hospital but,” Liam freezes, taking in a quick breath like _courage_ and _be brave, my child_ before a crooked grin moves over his lips, “I can see you again soon, yeah?”

Zayn snickers because they’re ten year olds playing in the sandbox and pretending not to want the same thing.  He nudges the arch of Liam’s trainer with the toe of his boot, nodding.

“Wouldn’t mind that,” Zayn says so freely it scares him.  He clears his throat, avoiding the way Niall’s smirking like _‘I told you so’_ is itching against those pink lips.

Liam lets out a long sigh that tastes like _relief_ and Zayn thinks that jaw is so pretty under this light, probably even prettier under a bedroom light with Zayn’s cock slipping past pink lips.

And _it’s not just sex_ , he thinks, because he wants to kiss that jaw in the morning and feel the stubble along it scratching Zayn’s neck when they cuddle and, possibly, the way that jaw feels under his fingers the first time Zayn kisses him properly.

“Soon,” Liam whispers and Zayn’s not bothered at all about the way Liam leans in or the rough brush of dry lips against the corner of his mouth like _how soon is now_.

Zayn stays still, turning his head just slightly when Liam draws back and there’s laughter in the background, Liam’s teammates, but Louis’ got narrowed eyes and a distinct curl to his lips – distrust in the most obvious way.  His fingers catch on the hem of Liam’s jersey, curling just a little to prevent Liam from pulling too far away but he lets go unconsciously when Liam smiles sweetly.

“Soon,” he repeats under a heavy breath and Liam’s being dragged into a headlock from Andy, Maz and Tom quickly giving him shit as they pull him into their small huddle.

Niall tosses an arm around his slouched shoulders and his warmth doesn’t radiate like Liam’s but it’s still comforting.

“Guess I better get you educated on the rules of football,” Niall says with a knotted smile, tugging Zayn in the opposite direction, “and the beauty of calisthenics, Zee, I promise it’s great for the bedroom.”

**

It’s a week later and _soon_ tastes a lot like _never_ when he doesn’t hear from Liam.  It’s not that he’s waiting but he does stare at his phone a little too much and walks a little slower around the halls of the hospital because, just maybe, he might run into Liam at the nurse’s station.  But he doesn’t and disappointment rings like _goodbye_ instead of _hello_.

He distracts himself with Niall and exploring bits of the town, pieces of the campus just to fill in the gaps.  Niall shows him the best places for coffee – still not as good as back home and he wonders how long _home_ will be that city two hours away as long as he’s here – and the library on campus and some of the smaller shops where he can buy vintage band shirts, a neat leather jacket, and stonewashed jeans.  He sneaks off into a comic book shop because his collection gets low and Niall takes him around for pastry and tea and warm, warm spring air that seeps into his lungs like the smoke of his Marlboro’s.

He doesn’t mind Niall even though he’s clingy and talkative and always a little too enthusiastic with that smile like it might fade away someday.  He’s always summer blue eyes,  
laughs thundering louder than the roar of traffic, and pale skin that burns under the April sun.

They spend evenings chasing the skies down the quiet streets – the town is pretty silent when the sun drops off except on game days and Zayn fucking hates it, hates the way it’s so damn _eerie_ all of the time – before getting pizza at one of those authentic shops and gargle down Cokes and Old Hen beer while skipping rocks across the fountain at the center of town.

He misses the glare of traffic or the way the streets were so _alive_ after six every night but he thinks he could get used to sharing cigarettes with Niall on the curb of some small street.  He doesn’t mind the way the night smells like fresh honey or the way the police here smile and wave at them when they pass by in their cars because everyone knows everyone in a small town.  He doesn’t feel profiled or looked at differently, like he’s capable of knocking off a store or tagging the walls in gang signs, when the officers patrol the campus and _free_ , free describes this feeling inside of him like, possibly, he could stay here for more than just a summer.

Zayn reluctantly shows Niall around the hospital but only to avoid chats about why Zayn wasn’t in University or what made him come here.  He lets Niall muck around on the radiology floor for the last of his Thursday shift, introducing him to his mum – who’s so damn chuffed about Zayn actually having a mate who is in school and Niall charms her with his accent, soft smile, and wide eyes – and Niall flirts with nurses who he thinks are _doctors_ and Zayn’s not bothered at all when Niall stops bringing up Liam after those first three days.

He thinks, somewhere faintly, Niall avoids all topics of Liam because Zayn’s face goes blank and his lips twitch a little like they’re trying not to frown but he knows he’s much braver than that.

He’s never been obsessed or into the proverbial chase most boys and girls enthrall themselves in or the thick of _should I give up or should I just keep chasing pavements_ because it never really meant that much to him.

There’s an ache between the hollow of his bones that misses Noah in the mornings when he arrives and does rounds with his mum.  He’s changed the sheets in that room at least six times – each time he leaves a corner a little undone like Noah will need space to wiggle between if he does return – and each new patient that wheels through the halls doesn’t light that same fire underneath his skin.  He’s resigned to sketch out half-done images of Tigger and humming ‘Up, Down and Touch the Ground’ takes precedence over things like Bruno Mars or Wheatus.

It’s a wonder why, on a Sunday, when he’s taken up another night shift – “Are you working nights to avoid me now?” Tricia teases with a curled smile that evening when she drops him off but it sounds more like _‘I’m proud of you,’_ even if she won’t admit it aloud – and sipping on nearly cold coffee, that Ellie stops by the nurse’s station and drops off a bunch of files and the patient list.  And he misses it at first, thumbing through his phone and turning the pages of another Marvel graphic novel, until the squeak of a highlighter on the top page draws his eyes to one name: _Payne, Noah_.

She flashes him one of those knowing smiles and he blinks at her, hard and relentless, until everything goes back into focus.

“Came in with an awful cough and he’s not really sleeping,” Ellie says before he can ask, grinning at the way his mouth is gaped and eyes a little too wide.  She clears her throat, leaning on the counter, whispering, “Your mum wants him here for a few days for observation.  Think he might have some sort of upper respiratory infection.  Oh, and he has a visitor that’s been asking all of the nurses on this floor if you’re on today.”

There’s a look in her eyes – it’s careful but bright like neon signs – before she crooks her smile a little.

He’s lightheaded, leaning back in that very uncomfortable office chair that squeaks and has a bad wheel before swallowing down uncertainty.  He raises his brow, fingers splayed on the desk and his heart speaks in a rhythm that’s becoming a little too familiar.

“Don’t worry,” she says as his lips try to form words, “I’m not telling your mum because I’m certain she’s quite against taking an interest in patients or their immediate family but he’s quite nice on the eyes, Zayn.  If it wasn’t so obvious,” and he wonders if it really is, “that he fancied you, I’d surely be interested in him.”

He knows she’s lying – she’d flirted for two hours with Niall two days ago and repeatedly asked about him since – but he grins anyway, shoulders loosening and the press of something guilty against his spine unravels itself with his next breath.

She throws out a bunch of medical terms about Noah, medications he’s on, the way he sounds when he’s trying to breathe, and he feels it all blur together with _soon, Zayn, soon_ and he’s unsettled but attempting not to show it.

“I’ve got the front,” she says when she’s moved around the counter to nudge him out of the chair and her smirk is wide and friendly when he stumbles to his feet, hands shaking and eyes looking all around for something more fascinating to concentrate on.

Ellie jerks her head down the hall and he’s smiling goofily, nodding, and rounding the corner before he realizes he’s left his phone behind – and his self-restraint too.

The pale glow from the overhead light makes Noah’s skin look ashen and his curls shaggier than he remembers.  The thick blankets swallow him and his brow is wrinkled like he’s struggling, tiny fingers curled into fists.  There’s more machines – _too many_ , he thinks absently but the pain against his skin is very apparent – and the clicks, static beeps, vibrating hum does little to distract him from the way Noah sounds when breathes.  It’s rough, a struggle that expands his chest a little too wide and his lips are parted to let out dragging puffs of air.  There’s an oxygen mask tucked into his side but only the line is visible because Noah’s buried in a pair of too familiar arms that Zayn has not dreamed about being strewn around him when he sleeps.

Except, he has dreamt about those arms and those cheeks, that jaw, the lips that he still feels tickling the corner of his mouth, and dreaming has become haphazard ever since he met Liam Payne.

Liam, who’s humming softly with lips pressed to Noah’s hairline and his body curled toward him.  He’s got an oversized black Adidas hoodie engulfing him, baggy jersey shorts on, and knee-high socks like he’s just come from a scrimmage or pickup game.  His cleats are tucked beneath the bed and there’s a snapback – classic Chicago Bulls, Zayn notes – pulled down over buzzed hair.  Those eyelashes beat softly against his cheeks, lips curved into a smile, and Zayn leans in the doorway for a few moments just to watch.

He thinks, later on, he hums along with Liam just to hear the sweet harmonies and the way it reverberates in his chest until his heart knocks a little harder.

Liam looks up through soft lashes after a second, eyes looking heavy, with a smile pressing to his mouth.  Zayn’s stilled, thoughts of crossing the threshold and pressing his lips hard to Liam’s just to know the taste and the sensation caging him in.

“You’re back,” Zayn chokes out, trying to find his voice again.

“You’re back,” Liam repeats and that smile is so damn affectionate it should be classified as _beautiful_.

Zayn feels the tug on his lips, a quiet grin, his chest rising and falling with Noah’s.  “He okay?”

Liam carefully lowers his eyes, dragging his nose in Noah’s hair, exhaling hard with him.

“Yeah,” he whispers, his voice remised like he’s fighting off sleep, “he’ll be okay.  This isn’t the first time, you know, my mummy has brought him in for this.  She’s just worried is all.”

Zayn nods because he gets it.  He really does.  He crosses his arms and Liam blinks at him like he’s lost for words.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t – “

Zayn lifts a hand with a small smile, halting the last of Liam’s words on that pink tongue.  He nips at his bottom lip, licking away the dryness, and Liam shifts uncomfortably on the bed for a moment.

“You don’t have to,” Zayn says quickly, gripping that smile like a lifeline.  Liam nods and the buzz of release sinks out of Zayn’s skin.  “I figured you didn’t.”

“But I _did_ ,” Liam says immediately and these broken lines feel so full, heavy.

He swallows, thinks about using Noah’s oxygen mask for himself, and that dizzy feeling won’t leave him.

Zayn chuckles, lowly, dragging his foot over the ground.  “S’okay.  I was just – I wanted to check on him.  I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

Liam nods slowly, lips pulling downward.  It’s a frown, by definition, and Zayn hates the way his skin feels so cold in the shadows.  There’s a pinched expression on Liam’s face for a beat, his chin tucked, and he plays with the curls on Noah’s head rather than saying anything.

Words are thick and lead-like on Zayn’s tongue and he feels discouraged until Liam looks up again.

A smile softens everything on Liam’s face before he says, “You’re not, really.  Like, I’ve kind of been asking around about you.  I dunno.  I feel like a donut for not – I mean, Zayn, ‘m glad you’re here.  It sounds a bit mad and sick because he’s here but I’m glad you’re here.”

Zayn nods because it’s easier than _I’m glad you here too_ or _can we start all over again_ and the shift of bright stars warming his spine spreads to his chest and limbs.

“Next time,” Zayn says behind a quiet breath, the room so much louder with the machines and Noah’s labored breathing and the ‘ _I want there to be a next time for us’_ drumming in his ears, “maybe we could exchange numbers?  Or – “

And Zayn’s already forgotten the phone he’s left behind at the nurse’s station or the _soon_ that’s still heavy on his tongue because Liam smiles like the sun is rising on something new, comfy.

Zayn bites down on his lip before the rest of the words lift off his tongue, cross his lips.  His nose scrunches with a smirk, Liam’s head tilting in that observant way that makes him look childlike and innocent – and Zayn hopes he’s not that innocent because he still wants Liam’s cock in his throat and thick fingers loosening his body.

He clears his throat, suddenly so constricted by the weight of Liam’s looks, and fumbles through his pockets for his pack of cigarettes.  He fishes one out, flicks the flame of his lighter repeatedly like a distraction.  When he lifts his eyes, Liam’s watching the spark rather than Zayn’s eyes and it’s perfectly calming.

“I’m just gonna,” Zayn jerks his head toward the exit and Liam nods along, “I need a quick smoke.  You think you might – “

“I’ll still be here,” Liam promises before Zayn can finish and they blink at each other for seconds too long, Zayn’s heart in his throat and Liam’s eyes crinkling with his grin.

“Right,” Zayn huffs out, his trainers squeaking on the ground as he backs out of the room.  He’s somewhere at a halfway point when he slips the fag between his lips and Liam wiggles his fingers like a _goodbye_ but maybe it’s a _come back_.  Zayn can’t quite decide and lingering in the space between feels intimidating.

Or _amazing_ , another thing he can’t quite live with.

**

He’s halfway through his first cigarette – because he has plans for another and another after that one and facing that warm smile from Liam again drives him mad enough to convince himself smoking will crowd those thoughts from his head – and the air is thick with spring heat.  The stars above fade in and out behind thick purple clouds and even thicker curls of smoke from his lips.

A laugh crosses his lips when he tips his head back, leaning against that brick wall, and he hasn’t thought about that stupid phone still at the nurse’s desk with his cup of now cold coffee until he realizes he wants to text Ant.  He’s searching for a distraction, a way out, and old mates and Bradford feels just like that.  It’s just a diversion and not where he really wants to be right now because freedom is bitter there.  It’s accidental and hidden beneath _teenage destruction_ , something he’s not too fond of.

Not anymore, at least.

He hates the way a smile pulls at his lips when that heavy, lead emergency exit door pushes open and Liam’s soaked in the dizzy light of the flood lights for a second before he sinks into the shadows with Zayn.  He’s got one of those goofy grins on his lips like he’s searching for danger, discovering it with Zayn.

Suddenly, _soon_ is bitter sharp on his tongue and he finds it hard to swallow with Liam blinking at him with soft shades of brown in his eyes and his skin looking so tan and touchable.

“He alright?” Zayn asks after a puff of sweet smoke, casually blowing the clouds away from Liam like he’s trying to be respectful.

Liam nods slowly and the world is closing in on them when Liam shifts nearer until he’s right in front of Zayn.

Right there, a finger’s distance, and Zayn backs further into the wall because he might – no, he _knows_ he will.

“Is he asleep?”

Liam bites on his lip, stifling a small laugh.  “For the most part,” he says, wiggling his fingers at his side because temptation, in its rawest form, seems to linger in the small space separating them.  “He just, I don’t know, he’s like this.  He’ll probably wake early.”

Zayn nods, sucking in another long haul of bitter smoke that coats his throat and singes the words on the roof of his mouth.  He slides a thumb over his lips after his tongue wets them, the glide smooth and it’s enough to keep him from touching Liam.

Liam gives him a considering look, tilting his head in that damn innocent and childish way that aches a fire under Zayn’s skin.

_Kiss him_.

Zayn clears his throat, startling Liam enough that his next smile looks sheepish but he knots his brow and puffs out a deep exhale that matches the one Zayn releases, dripped in smoke.

“You know,” Liam starts, grinning but his eyes take a serious turn, “smoking isn’t very good for you or your body.”

Zayn snorts because _oh, you’re one of those lads_.  He breathes the smoke out of his nose, fingers already itching for the next one before he taps his free fingers on the side of his jeans, making a face.

“Thanks for the information, mate,” he teases, kicking a foot at Liam’s trainers.  It’s playful and Zayn can’t help but love the way it draws a mocking grin across Liam’s lips.

“I’m serious,” Liam says and he doesn’t sound half as meaningful as he tries to, “’s really not good for you.”

_Neither are you_ , Zayn thinks, grinning to himself.  He takes another drag instead, dropping his brow.  He swallows around the smoke, the heat scraping his throat and drying out his chest before he says, “You gonna stop me?”

“I might try,” Liam says, challenging, and Zayn laughs bitterly.

“Good luck,” he mutters, holding the smoke in his lung this time until it evaporates the _I’d quit for you if you really wanted_ and his breathing turns a little less shallow.

“Quite the good boy, aren’t you?” Zayn teases, lips skating upwards for a crooked smirk.  “All-star sport.  Always taking care of Noah like he’s your own.  Probably wicked in academics too.  You do everything by the book and everyone can count on you.”

Zayn pauses, swallowing when Liam stumbles a little, looking shocked and wounded.  His fingers turn into fists at his side and, instantly, Zayn lets regret burn like acid in his chest while Liam’s brow wrinkles and his eyes drop.

“’m not,” Liam says, hard and soft at once.  He kicks the toe of Zayn’s high tops, shuffling for a second until Zayn can see through his skin, the nerves bursting like the Northern Lights.

“Couldn’t tell,” Zayn says just because mending fences with apologies has always felt so unrealistic to him.

Liam scoffs, lifting his chin a little defiantly.  “I’m horrid at school.  Only made it into University ‘cause of what I can do on the pitch.  And I try to be dependable but not because I want to be someone’s hero.  I do it because,” there’s a pause, a flash of something pained that makes Zayn want to reach out, “I don’t think anyone else cares enough to.”

Zayn blinks at him, hard, teeth scratching impatiently at his bottom lip and everything that was vertical turns horizontal and he’s taking two puffs instead of one to compensate for the way his heart blisters with sympathy.

And he wishes it was _empathy_ or _apathy_ because, wholeheartedly, those are two things he does easily.

“I’m a geek,” Zayn admits, rubbing against the rough feel of bricks behind him until Liam’s eyes lift.  He smiles, evenly, letting the ash sit on the end of his cigarette as he adds, “I’m great at school, y’know, when I try to be.  And I love comic books.  I fucking love reading novels and, for fuck’s sake, I could go to the art gallery every weekend if there was a fantastic one around.”

Liam smirks, cheeks raised and they look soft like crushed velvet.  “There’s a bloody brilliant one in London.  My parents took me when I was young – “

“Never been,” Zayn interrupts, trying to swallow _bitter_ and _jealousy_ until the bile devours it.  He shrugs, scrunching his face, “but I’d like to one day.”

“I wouldn’t mind going back,” Liam admits, shyness curving his shoulders downward.  “I don’t really get all of the paintings and don’t get me started on the difference between post-modern and symbolism.”

Zayn inches out a laugh that echoes through the air, hoarse and scratchy from cigarette smoke but it draws the corners of Liam’s mouth up and they settle in the shadowy night with strong beats of silence.

Liam moves in again and Zayn’s heart tenses and flutters to the sound of some incredibly awful but paralyzing song Niall hummed the other day – _All I wanna get is a little bit closer. All I wanna know is can you come a little closer_.  He takes a final draw from his cigarette and Liam finds his spare fingers so easily in the dark, sliding his own in the spaces between.  Zayn bites his lip and lets Liam tangle their fingers like a promise, keeping an even expression while Liam looks at him like – he’s not sure.

He hopes that look never goes away.

“He was an accident,” Liam says, low and quiet with his eyes on the wall behind Zayn instead of Zayn’s.  He clears his throat, not even bothering to wave off the smoke Zayn breathes between them.

“Nicola and Martin were so young and, Noah was a complete accident,” Liam explains, dragging his foot across broken pieces of gravel until the rocks crunch and the sound of crickets beat a little louder than Liam’s heart.  “She didn’t want a baby but me parents, well, they’re old-fashioned.  My dad doesn’t believe in – he wouldn’t let her do it.  And she just wasn’t ready.  She didn’t take very good care of herself while she carried him.”

Zayn nods, fingers twining a little tighter around Liam’s and he’s lighting another cigarette to keep his other hand from curling around the nape of Liam’s neck, drawing him closer.

Liam clears his throat, trying to fix a smile to his pink lips that never forms.  “She’s a good person, really.  She just – she didn’t want to be a mum.  She didn’t connect with Noah when he was born and me mummy knew it.  We all did.”

“But she loves him,” Zayn whispers, the smoke doing little to numb the ache in his chest.

“Of course,” Liam breathes out, eyes studying Zayn’s face for a second.  “But she’s just not a _mum_.  And he’s had so many health problems that she just can’t – she’s not good with things like that.  When my granddad got sick, she couldn’t deal.  She went to London with her friends for a week, got pissed every night.”

Zayn nods, his thumb running the inside of Liam’s wrist until he feels the pulse in his veins slow.

“My mum did it on instinct.  She became Noah’s mum,” Liam sighs, a thick laugh breaking past his lips and Zayn thinks it’s unwanted but necessary.  “And he would only fall asleep if I rocked him.  And he only ever ate if my sister Ruth fed him.  My dad got him hooked on trains and my mum reads to him, tries to teach him all sorts of words that he can’t really say but, I think, he understands.”

There’s a beat of silence, tense and filled with heavy breaths that Zayn hates.

He thinks he hates the frown tugging at Liam’s lips a little more.

“He’s always been sick, too,” Liam adds, lips fumbling with a small smile.  “He’s a fighter but he just – he’s ill.  It was the sleeping and then the fevers and it’s awful when he catches a wee little cold.  It’s fucking mental.”

Zayn tugs on his hand, soft but firm, and Liam stumbles a little closer.  Zayn holds in the smoke from his cigarette, curling his fingers to Liam’s hip like _shut it_ and _you’ve said enough_ until Liam’s chest doesn’t rise and fall so quickly.  He waits until Liam softens, relaxes, his thumb stroking under Liam’s hoodie to find skin and it’s an addiction, really.

Liam creases beneath his skin and he wants to be one of those superheroes he spends hours sketching, the urgency sinking into his bones.

“Do you think I could, maybe, stay the night with him?” Liam inquires, his free fingers mapping out Zayn’s chest through that silly lavender shirt.

Zayn grins, chewing on his bottom lip.  “Trying to get me in trouble, Payne?”

Blush sets against Liam’s cheeks before he ducks his head.  “I could sneak out early in the morning.  I’ve got class and I – “

Zayn curls his fingers around Liam’s chin, lifting it, and the sweep of lashes over Liam’s cheeks deserves to be hung in any gallery across the world.

“Long as you’re out before me mum does her rounds,” Zayn offers, knocking his knee against Liam’s just for the connection.

Liam smiles, thoughtfully, and there’s not enough space for Zayn to smile back before Liam leans in and kisses him.  It’s a rush, his air suddenly so thick and his head dizzy and Liam’s lips taste like sugar and salt when he sneaks his tongue between them.  Liam welcomes it, gasping around his tongue before charging back and licking Zayn’s teeth.

There’s a fist bunching up his shirt and he’s flicking away his cigarette to finally press calculated fingers to the nape of Liam’s neck, holding him there.  It’s not how he imagined this – their first kiss was going to be somewhere in the middle of the pitch, after a game but before a first date – but he succumbs to momentum and lets Liam press him a little firmer into the wall to chase away Zayn’s second – and third – thoughts.

When Liam pulls back, his first breath is soaked with smoke and the small clouds hang between them.

Zayn smirks, still stunned, resting his head against the wall and the look on Liam’s face is sinful in the most delicious way.

“See,” Liam says, chewing on his lip, bits of smoke still filtering out through his nose, “I can be bad too.  ‘m not all good.”

Zayn cocks an eyebrow up and _run from danger_ is something he was taught as a child.

He never quite learned that lesson.

They can’t remain still afterwards, hands searching out new areas to touch and mold and explore.  He loves the way Liam’s hips anchor him but the planes of his stomach entice thunder and the slices of skin blessed with ink call up desire and he can’t decide between resting a hand on Liam’s neck or his collarbone, all hidden beneath that too large hoodie.

“I stink,” Zayn says with a quiet laugh as Liam kisses his cheek, softer pecks against his forehead.

“Me too,” Liam admits and they laugh together this time because Liam’s still coated in sweat from practice and Zayn’s skin is soaked in cigarette smoke but it feels right.

Fingers tickle beneath shirts, playful punches thrown when a nail scrapes along ribs or finds that soft spot across a stomach, and Zayn is so lost on this boy.

“Noah likes the zoo and monkeys,” Liam says far too many laughs and teasing touches later, the dark swallowing them but the few kisses they exchange – it’s still so chaste now like they don’t know how far is _too far_ – shine bright like the creation of galaxies.

Zayn lifts his brow, letting Liam crowd him in closer to the wall.  They pass a cigarette back and forth, Liam taking small huffs like he shouldn’t – “My training regime and my lungs and, fuck dude, if I can’t run laps with the others I will hunt you down” – but he exhales the smoke like a professional.

He looks shy, looking at Zayn through soft eyelashes and a gentle smile.  “Maybe you could, I dunno, come with us sometime?”

Zayn nips at his bottom lip – wishes so desperately that it was _Liam’s_ – and watches Liam take a slow pull this time, nicotine infecting him and leaving his smile a little lazy.

“To the zoo?  With the animals?”

Liam hitches on a breath, his laugh raspy, and Zayn wants to kiss him again but doesn’t.

“Yes,” Liam laughs out, shoving at Zayn’s shoulder, knocking the cigarette to the ground with the force.  They both ignore it, the cherry glowing a bright, bright orange before fading out

“Like a date?”

Liam swallows, fingers shaking now as they move over Zayn’s hip, under his shirt.

“Noah’ll be there,” he offers, still too shy.

Zayn snorts, nodding.  “A sort of date, yeah?”

Liam blinks at him for a moment, considering, and that smile moves so easily over his lips likes _yes, yes, yes_.

“If you don’t mind,” Liam whispers, fingers digging into Zayn’s skin until they feel possessive and Zayn doesn’t mind that at all.

Not at all.

**

“So you’re going, right?” Niall asks, sounding a bit manic, the next night over takeaway – noodles and spicy curry and fortune cookies because Niall likes _variety_ – and Zayn tries not to shoot him an incredulous look because those blue eyes are so damn wide.

“Maybe,” Zayn says around his curry, trading sips of cherry Coke with herbal tea – because Leigh-Ann is on a Zen kick that, unfortunately, leaves Zayn absent of shitty coffee and sticky sweets – and the hospital is once again eerily quiet this evening.

“Maybe?” Niall squeaks, wrinkling his face.  “Did Julia Roberts tell High Grant she _maybe_ an actress who’s madly in love with him in _Notting Hill_?”

Zayn shrugs carelessly, leaning back in that old chair behind the nurse’s station.  “Don’t know.  Didn’t see it, mate.”

Niall slaps his hands on the counter and Zayn’s face scrunches at the way those eyes grow even larger.

“What the incredible fuck bro?”

Zayn rolls his eyes promptly, forking up more curry while ignoring the way Niall _glares_ at him.  He’s not into romantic comedies or _Julia Roberts_ or the perpetual idea that falling in love happens that easily – and irony plays rough fingers against his spine at that thought.

“’m thinking about it,” Zayn admits and it’s a complete lie.

He knows he’s going to do it.  He’s thought about it _six_ times since Liam snuck back into Noah’s room last night and another _five_ times since _‘would it be rude to ask for your number now that we’ve kissed’_ left Liam’s mouth this morning.

“Come on, bro,” Niall huffs, flicking the toe of Zayn’s kicked up trainer, scowling like he’s offended by Zayn’s aloofness.

Actually, Zayn thinks he is though he doesn’t say it.  It’s another rambling conversation with Niall that he doesn’t particularly want and he’s learned that Niall is not one to lose an argument.

Zayn hums, a slow sip of citrus and herbs and steam filtering through his throat.  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

“Wearing leather jackets in the middle of April is not a _good idea_ ,” Niall hisses and Zayn crinkles his brow, looking affronted and chucking a fortune cookie at Niall’s head.  “Ignoring the hottest girl in the room to play Call of Duty is a bad idea.  Snogging your bro’s mum is not a good idea.  Going out with the best player on the footie team who happens to like you – “

“He never said that,” Zayn interjects and Niall waves him off just as quickly.

“ _Details_ , Zee.  Skip the details,” Niall sighs, “It would not be a good idea to miss out on this.”

Zayn lifts his brow and admitting Niall is right feels too heavy against his tongue.  He sips on his Coke instead, humming softly.

“Look Zayn,” Niall starts and there’s something thick and serious in his tone as he points a plastic fork at Zayn, face pinched and eyes narrow, “I’m not telling you to do anything you don’t already know but, as your best mate,” Zayn grins at that and decides not to argue otherwise, “I advise you do this.  He’s a good guy, that Liam.  He _cares_ unlike all of the other self-righteous pricks in this town.  Trust me, I’ve met a handful.”

There’s a breath between Zayn’s next few bites and Niall’s unrelenting with his looks.  He’s almost… _begging_.

“I don’t know his whole story but I know what everyone says about him is good,” Niall adds, scrubbing pale fingers through bleach blonde hair.  “And I can’t be the only one you lean on here.  I mean, honestly, what happens when I find a bird and I’m too busy shagging to keep you company in this mental ward.”

“It’s a hospital,” Zayn corrects, biting down on a grin.

“It’s an institution and you know it.  This place is too fucked out and I swear it’s haunted.  I’ve done my research and I know there’s fucking ghosts here man,” Niall insists and Zayn offers him a half-smile, shaking his head.

“You’re mad, dude.”

“Yeah, well,” Niall says, waving him off.  “Just do the right thing, Zee.  For once, it might be worth it.”

Zayn doesn’t respond, taking his eyes off of Niall for a moment but his fingers search his pockets for his phone and he’s thumbing out a message before he takes another sip of tea – _mum says noah wll be out thursday morn. off fri. zoo?? aha xx Z_.

**

Friday is so bright and on the right side of warm and the sun streaks the sky a pale shade of sapphire that looks so perfect against chalk-gray clouds.

The zoo is nothing like he expects.  It’s small and simple like this town is – and nothing like he thinks his feelings about Liam are anymore; not in the least bit.  It’s a long stretch of land sat next to a playground and the town’s fountain that’s old but beautiful with its spirals of water and a spinning black marble globe that tilts every few seconds to expose another piece of the world.  The rest is small exhibits and iron cages and Zayn thinks of Bradford never feeling this _intimate_.

He’s late – not that he was doing it on purpose but it’s just so _early_ and he hates mornings or early afternoons or anything before _two_ in the afternoon – and he spots them immediately when he crosses the sidewalk dividing the small neighborhood and the zoo’s entrance.  Noah’s impatient with wide cinnamon eyes, soft curls looking honey beneath the pull of the sun’s rays with an oversized jumper on.  He’s tugging on a couple of Liam’s fingers, trying to move towards the entrance and, fuck, Zayn hadn’t realized how beautiful Liam was in the cool glow of the afternoon.

There’s a soft smile pushed over pinkish lips, glittery streaks of the sun haloing around tan skin and bunched muscles that show through his tight Batman shirt.  His snapback sits lazily over buzzed hair and his jeans hang loose off hips that Zayn can still remember beneath his fingers.  Those eyes – brown like hazelnut but bright like early autumn leaves – look so affectionately at Noah, a laugh playing over his lips as he scrubs thick fingers through those downy curls until Noah settles a little and Zayn feels his breath hitch when Liam lifts his chin and finds him in a small crowd of passing families and curious children.

“Hey,” Zayn says, his voice choked and he’s never been nervous like this.  He shifts nimble fingers through his hair – it’s a softer quiff today, free of product and pieces of fringe fall into his eyelashes – before shuffling feet over broken sidewalk.

Liam laughs quietly.  “Hey you.”

A smile shifts so comfortably – _natural_ , he thinks without restriction – and he shuffles until he’s close enough that he can pick out the pinwheel of browns and gold in Liam’s eyes.

There’s a look in Liam’s eyes that loosens the grip on his spine and pushes little breaths of air from his lungs.  It’s undefinable in context but Zayn doesn’t think that matters much when Liam’s fingers reach out, shyly, and brush against Zayn’s knuckles like a _hello_ and _I’ve missed you_.

“I’m late,” Zayn says, quick and shy and he’s never quite understood the over-usage of _a band-aid to cover a bullet hole_ until he catches the way his skin goes fuzzy at the glint in Liam’s eyes.

“S’okay,” Liam tells him with a crooked grin, leaning with the force of Noah’s tugging.  He glances downward, nudging Noah with his knee until the boy stills just a little with large, owlish eyes.

Liam kneels down, resting large hands on Noah’s small shoulders, giving a small squeeze.  “Hey little buddy, you remember Zayn, yeah?”

Noah looks up as Zayn looks down, eyes meeting somewhere in the middle and Noah’s expression goes blank.  It presses something cold to Zayn’s skin like being forgotten hurts more than the silence between them.

“Remember,” Zayn swallows, fingers curling at his sides and he’s never missed the touch of someone else as much as he thinks he misses Liam’s, “Zay?”

There’s a moment, pinched and fragile, before a small smile plays over Noah’s lips and he’s charging forward those few steps to collide with Zayn’s legs.  He throws little arms around Zayn’s thigh, giggling into the denim and Zayn finally exhales that thick breath he didn’t realize he was holding so tightly in his chest.

“Zay,” Noah says, muffled, and he’s looking up with even wider eyes.  “Zoo?  Monkeys.”

Zayn smirks hard with his tongue pressed to his teeth and his fingers moving through silky curls.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, his voice foreign to his ears but he sounds so hopeful.  “Let’s go check ‘em out.”

Noah immediately backs into Liam, looking gleeful and anxious and Zayn watches Liam steady himself upright again with a thick grin.  Small fingers fit into Liam’s hand and Liam gives him a look over his shoulder that’s affectionate and bright and Zayn thinks the warmth of the sun is dull compared to the heat of Liam’s eyes.

He swallows down cheesy things like _you are the sunshine of my life_ and winks at Liam, courage mustered.  He thinks he can see the faint kick of blush against Liam’s cheeks but the sun is so bright overhead, slicing through the perfect sky, and he’s never quite seen that tint of pink against human skin before.  He shakes it off as Noah slowly drags Liam forward and Zayn fits his hand to the small of Liam’s back just for the connection – and the way Liam shivers under him.

They move through the first few exhibits in the zoo, taking long glances at the sea otters ad tapping at the glass in hopes of catching a peek at a few prairie dogs but they’re hidden in their tunnels and Noah’s interest wanes quicker than it comes.  There’s a section for a few wild birds that keep Noah distracted while Zayn taps out pretty rhythms to the chord of Liam’s spine, smiling into his shoulder at the way Noah squeaks over the peacocks – and Zayn keeps his distance because he’s watched enough of wildlife television to know all of the noise the children make at the birds is not favorable.

He bites at his knuckles while Liam pulls out his phone to take pictures in the butterfly exhibit.  Noah’s in awe, cooing and shaking with excitement and Liam fits himself to Zayn’s side, thighs touching and shoulders nudging every few breaths.  Fingers curl around his hip and Zayn sinks so naturally into Liam, warmed by a broad chest and the stretch of muscle that coils around his shoulders.

“He’s so,” Zayn pauses, his voice low and dense with astonishment, “I dunno.  It’s rather – “

Liam snorts, nosing at the tendons in Zayn’s neck for a brief second – and Zayn will forever remember the feel of those dry lips catching on the skin just below his jaw.  “Been like this since he was an infant.  He was always so _happy_.”

Zayn smiles.  He watches Noah and wonders if Liam was the same way and, suddenly, he wants to sit down with Karen over a cup of coffee and dozens of Liam’s childhood photographs.

They miss half of what the tour guide says about zebras or the mating habits of the dingo and Zayn’s a little fascinated with the smirk that tugs on the corners of Liam’s mouth, the crinkles around his eyes, the scruff on his cheeks when they walk slowly through the marsupial habitat.

“G’day mate,” Liam whispers, Australian accent weak but sweet, and the curl of something delicious rides its wave through Zayn’s stomach.

“You must be off your face,” Zayn teases back, his accent thinner, and that taken aback look Liam gives him is accompanied by a wide grin and a crinkled nose.

“That’s ace, man,” Liam says, abashed and he quietly drags his fingers over the copper streaks in Zayn’s hair.

Zayn shrugs and they’re leaning into each other again as Noah claps happily at the smaller marsupials hopping through the nearby dirt.  They fold into something knit and close, watching over Noah before following the tour guide and another quiet family – and Zayn tries not to think about it but that’s what they are in this moment, aren’t they? – towards the exit.

Liam’s attentive in ways Zayn never imagined as they move through the small pathways around the zoo, rocks crunching beneath their feet and Noah’s hand in Liam’s so he doesn’t excitedly stray too far.  He keeps a steady gaze with Zayn as he lists off facts and discoveries about peacocks and elephants and why he loves tigers.  There’s a listless smile across pink lips and little lines around his eyes when he grins hard enough and Zayn thinks, for maybe too long, that he’ll never be able to differentiate the distinction in Brazilian coffee brown and honeysuckle brown ever again.

Noah is bouncy and loud and quiet all at once.  He shakes at the sight of the lion, the flamingos too, and curls small arms around Zayn’s thigh instead of Liam’s with tiny fingers pinching through the fabric of Zayn’s jean.  Zayn, instinctively, folds his hand across the nape of Noah’s neck to steady him and he doesn’t miss the gaze Liam shoots him – tender and over the fucking moon if he interprets it right.

“I’ve got you buddy,” Zayn says assuredly, cool fingers slowing the way Noah trembles and somewhere between the small fenced in petting farm and the tropical birds exhibit, Liam pulls in so close that every other breath tickles the short hairs at the back of Zayn’s neck.

“Zay!  Look!  _Look_!”

Noah’s dashing up to the large structure that houses swinging monkeys and Zayn grins, a permanent fixture to his lips now, and follows with Liam close behind.

There’s screeching and coos and Noah’s giggling manically like he’ll never have a moment like this again.  It curls in the pit of Zayn’s stomach, his fingers threading through docile curls while Noah bops from foot to foot.

“He loves them,” Liam whispers, his chest pressed firmly to Zayn’s back and there’s a small burst of something sweet against Zayn’s skin when Liam’s fingers dip beneath his thin white Henley to stroke over his skin, inches from that thick heart tattoo he got foolishly two years ago.

Zayn nods, casually leaning into Liam and he shivers when Liam’s smile is pressed into the side of his neck.  His free hand reaches back, plays with the hem of Liam’s shirt and his heart trades off steady beats with uneven ones.

There’s hidden touches – a hand beneath a shirt, fingers playing the opening lines of something by Queen across a thigh, a thumb stroking that midsection of the back, shoulders brushing on accident but the smiles afterwards are very much on purpose – as they lead Noah out of the zoo.  Zayn licks over his lips to dull his smile but it won’t quite fade and Liam’s looking at him through his lashes while trying to fix Noah’s shoe laces.  The stubble that stains his jaw – light and blonde – looks rough and Zayn imagines it scratching his neck with Liam’s tongue playing colorful notes over his collarbone.  It’s the kind of distraction that makes him miss the curious, wide-eyed look Noah gives him for a moment but his face turns blank.

They follow the long expanse of sidewalk away from the zoo, closer to the park, with a buzz across Noah’s lips and a shy smile searing the pink of Liam’s lips.  Zayn thinks about kissing him, hard, breathless, and his teeth pull at a corner of his lip to stop those musings.

“Ice cream?” Liam offers with an arched eyebrow directed at Zayn for a brief second, turning soft when he looks down at Noah.

“ _Please_ ,” Noah begs, drawing out each letter until it sounds more endearing than annoying.

Zayn snorts, nodding when Liam’s eyes fall on him again.

Liam grins, eyes wide like Noah’s, and Zayn stumbles a little with his next few steps because, fuck, this boy is gorgeous without trying.

They move along the edges of something quiet, the sun freckling their backs with warmth, and Zayn feels warmth fit into his sweaty palm before he notices Noah’s fingers curling around his middle and ring fingers.  He blinks down at it and it’s disarming in a beautiful way, how Noah doesn’t even bother to look back but there’s a smirk on his shiny lips.  And he thinks back to uncomfortable glances and silence and Noah ignoring his existence until it hits him quicker than he’s ready for.

Liam clears his throat, softly, and Zayn looks up to see Noah holding Liam’s hand too.  He hauls in a breath that’s sharp and stings in his lungs but Liam’s grinning, blush stretching over round cheeks, and Zayn mirrors him so easily.

Liam buys a vanilla-chocolate swirl cone for Noah and shyly smiles when he passes the young clerk a few more quid to buy a Twister lolly for Zayn and himself.  He looks sheepish offering it to Zayn, chewing the rim of his bottom lip until it’s stretched red and raw and Zayn thumbs away the salvia that lingers with a smirk.

“Thanks,” he whispers instead of _next time let me bite it_ or _I want to kiss you_ while his thumb idles just beneath Liam’s lip.  He feels hot, a biting fire crawling up his skin when Liam smirks, cheeks pinker, and they drift apart before innocent becomes erotic.

Their shoulders brush, pinkies curling around each other as Noah dashes down to the park and hops on one of the swings, little feet kicking but never going anywhere.  Liam laughs around a long lick of his Twister and Zayn swallows roughly to rid his mind of how that tongue would look swirling around the head of his cock.

He doesn’t deliberately slide his own ice cream far into his mouth, the tip meeting his throat, his lips stretched wide and swollen around the cold substance but he tries not to blush at the way Liam _stares_ at him with large eyes and lips parted.

Zayn nudges him with an elbow and there’s bursts of giggles and straying eyes but Zayn lets Liam curl his fingers between the spaces of his own until they’re holding hands.

“You’re the bad one,” Zayn teases softly, kicking a foot against Liam’s as they hike through the sand encompassing the park.

Liam hums, grinning, and swallows around his lolly until Zayn makes a face.

“Twat,” Zayn laughs out, knocking their shoulders together, and Liam’s laugh is wet and his tongue is striped three different colors.

They follow Noah down into a large field of green and dandelions and small butterflies that chase the world on the breath of the wind.  There’s ducks idly mingling around a greener patch of grass and Noah bustles right up to them while Zayn and Liam linger back, teasing each other with contagious grins and flickering looks and Zayn’s heart races at the way Liam licks his fingers clean of sticky melted ice cream with a deliberate tongue.

_Will you do that to me in bed with my arse in the air and my fingers on your thighs_ , he thinks, his breathing a little rapid.

Liam grins at him like he _knows_ , winking, before he’s laughing hard and those eyes turn into crinkled, smaller versions of their former selves.

“He loves ducks,” Liam tells him when they’re sitting on a soft piece of land.

Zayn bites at his lip, still tasting remains of ice cream but missing the sugary nectar of Liam’s lips.

Their fingers brush in the grass, rubbing over knuckles, fitting into small spaces, tracing bone until they’re both a little less shy.

He thinks of Niall and his stupid love for acoustic radio and things that stick to his mind – _Just know that wherever you go. No, you’re never alone. You will always get back home_ – with the kind of importance he reserves for things like love and family.

“He’s so,” Zayn pauses, his nose wrinkling with a quiet snicker when Noah chases a few ducks around, “happy.”

Liam nods instantly, tilting his head in that way that makes him so young and boyish.  “He always is when he’s out here.  He loves the outdoors.”

_And you_ , Zayn thinks with a smirk tugging his lips sideways.

He sniffs at the air, distant thoughts of strong coffee and cigarettes no longer needed.

And he thinks it’s quite embarrassing that this stupid boy or this enigmatic eight year old have done this to him.

His thumb traces endless shapes and stars and hearts over the back of Liam’s hand until Liam scoots closer and their thighs brush without hesitance.  The wind blows cool air that scratches the back of his neck before Liam leans in, slow and nervous, to bite gently at Zayn’s shoulder and kiss away the sharp sting of it.

“This is nice,” he says, words muffled into Zayn’s Henley and Zayn can’t dust away the smile on his lips.

“Sort of is,” Zayn admits a little too quietly.

“Sort of?”

Zayn snorts, nodding.  He winces with the pull of Liam’s teeth again, this time against his collarbone, but the tongue that licks away the wound hurts even more.

“Is this your way of making me try harder for your,” Liam hauls in a breath and Zayn thinks the words he can’t quite finish.

He leans in until their foreheads touch under the coast of a spring sun he’ll never quite forget.

_Not for a long time_ , he thinks, smiling.

“Is that what you’re trying to do?” Zayn wonders, his nose accidentally brushing Liam’s but he doesn’t seem to mind.  Neither does Liam.

“Sort of.”

Zayn laughs, a feeling deep in his chest that’s nothing like _suspect_ or _inconsequential_.  He finds the rough edges of Liam’s knuckles in the grass and the soft pull of reverence in his inhibited smile.

“You’re trying to,” Zayn licks his lips, watching the spread of Liam’s before finishing, “do what, babe?”

There’s a loud, rolling shiver to Liam’s shoulders and his chest expands wide but Zayn’s caught on the way his lips look… _inviting_.

“I dunno,” Liam whispers, cheeks burned pink.  “I’m just _trying_ , you donut.”

A sweet catch hiccups into Liam’s laugh and Zayn pulls back just slightly until Liam’s fingers grip the center of his shirt, wrinkling soft, soft material and dragging Zayn back.

“I’m just trying,” he says again, softer but steady.

Zayn nods, pulling in his bottom lip until his teeth feel sharp and the sun beats a little rougher on his skin when it heats up under the long gazes Liam gives him.

**

“I’m telling you,” Niall says around a cloud of smoke with a cigarette dangling loosely between his middle and forefinger and an even looser smirk on his lips, “that substitution of Maz for the Tommo was the right idea.  Bloody brilliant, if you ask me.”

Zayn smirks, kicking his feet out and he looks up at the heavy purple sky like it’s a sea of uncharted brilliance.  He thinks, for just a second, about sketching the way the stars wink like Christmas lights and the streamline of black that’s shifting into focus.

It’s late, another Friday night spent at the University stadium wedged between loud, appreciative fans and town’s people with shit else to do but support _the local heroes_ – and Zayn thinks that’s term is used a little too freely to be taken seriously.  He doesn’t know how long he and Niall have been sat on the curb outside but it’s enough for Niall to finish a whole beer and for them to share at least one cigarette.

“Do you hate him or summat?” Zayn asks when Niall passes him the cigarette, taking in a long haul of nicotine and oxygen until the cherry glows tangerine in the night.  He puffs out slow, careful rings of smoke, a practiced method he learned from Danny when he was fourteen, before adding, “I think you’ve got it out for the poor sod.”

Niall cackles, too dark Ray Bans over those sea salt blue eyes with cheeks stained a gorgeous crimson.  He tugs his snapback down a little, dragging his feet on the gravel until it groans in the quiet air.

“The Tommo?” Niall asks rhetorically because they both know who Zayn’s referring to.  He schools his expression for a second, looking thoughtful, but smirking.  “Nah, the dude is a fucking ace player.  He really is.”

Zayn lifts his brow as to ask _what then_ and Niall lifts his shoulders lazily.

“He’s brilliant, but unrefined,” Niall says, drawing his knees close to his chest before taking the cigarette back.  “Is that the right word?”

Zayn chuckles, nodding.  Niall may be the one in University but Zayn can’t help but wonder if he’s spending more time glorifying footie teams and pointless social clubs rather than giving his all to, you know, his _education_.

“Well, the little shit needs to stop trying to be Beckham and hone his skill set,” Niall declares after a quick puff of the cigarette.  He knocks off the ash lethargically, choking out small breaths of gray smoke.

Zayn grins, his tongue wetting already chapped lips, and he hears the echoes of celebration in the distance.

“Maybe you’re jealous,” Zayn teases, plucking the cigarette from Niall’s clumsy fingers before he can take a second drag.

Niall balks at him and Zayn knows those eyes are wide behind the thick shade of black lenses.  It tickles down his spine and he wastes a huff of smoke on laughter.

“You dick,” Niall hisses, nudging him with a sharp elbow that unsettles Zayn a little but he’s too practiced – puffing through it all and taking smoke into his system like a good hit off a joint.

He exhales the smoke, tipping his head back so it circles them high above like watching angels and he wonders how far past midnight it probably is.  He’s ignored the buzz of his phone an hour ago – Ant, his sister Doniya, his mum probably wondering where he is or if he’s safe or if he’s seconds from being arrested again – and he’s languid and content in this dullness with Niall next to him.

It’s the kind of peace he hasn’t felt since thirteen and skateboarding off the back alleys by his father’s offices.

“I got an audition,” Niall says after the silence beats too long.

Zayn arches an eyebrow, passing him the cigarette, pulling the one from behind his ear because he knows they’ll need another one soon.

“For a play?” Zayn inquires with a wrinkled brow and fingers flicking the flame of his lighter until it burns the pad of his thumb.

Niall rolls his eyes immediately, nudging Zayn roughly before sucking in a long breath of smoke.

“For the Block Party, you dolt,” Niall huffs out, smoke filtering his words.  “I got an audition for the group.  It was incredible, bro.  Like they found me in the library – “

“What the fuck were you doing in _there_ , mate?” Zayn teases, lips curling around the end of the fag.

Niall groans, knocking his knee to Zayn’s.  “Shut it.”

Zayn lifts his shoulders casually, taking the last few pulls of the cigarette until it doesn’t shine as bright in the night and the ash is thick and crumbling in the wind.

“Like I said, you dumb fuck,” Niall says and it comes out affectionate with a warm smile, “they found me in the library trying to score that lovely bird Cher’s number – “

Zayn nods along, smirking.  There’s a birth of pride in his chest because they’ve spent too many chats over Chinese and Japanese and this nice spicy Indian takeaway place Niall found for him a few streets away from the campus discussing Niall’s inability to go for what he wants.

“ – and they said they’d heard I was interested,” Niall continues, nicking the new fag the second Zayn lights it to take the first puff, “Of course I played it quite cool, mate.  I told ‘em I would consider the option.”

Zayn laughs lowly, the vibrating sound moving like comets through his chest.

“Fuck off,” Zayn snickers, elbowing Niall.  “You probably shit your chinos.”

Niall laughs with him, the sound wheezing and smoke wallows between them as they pass the cigarette back and forth for shorter draws.

“I hope I get in,” Niall whispers, an admission that feels like a secret he doesn’t want Zayn to hear.

Zayn curls a comforting arm around sluggish shoulders and hauls Niall a little closer.

“If you don’t,” Zayn says around the end of the cigarette, pulling in smoke, “they’re fucking idiots.  They’d be mad not to take you, mate.  You know all the cheers and shit.”

Niall rolls his eyes, his sunglasses hanging off the edge of his nose, but the smile he gives Zayn is so appreciative that it quakes under Zayn’s skin.

Stupid town.  Stupid fit boy who plays football.  Stupid little Irish bastard who, Zayn thinks, is probably a better mate than Ant or Danny ever were.

“I hope they do,” Niall adds with a laugh that feels like a cover up but Zayn doesn’t mention it.  He gives Niall an amused grin instead, passing him the cigarette and never asking for it back.

“Are you about to snog or something because I’d hate for that to be the way I meet my best mate’s, what’d you call ‘im Haz?  My best’s mate’s _love interest_?”

There’s a group of giggling drunken girls moving down the sidewalk, a small crowd of loud lads tossing a football back and forth as they follow, and the rush of cars down the street but Zayn barely notices any of them when a trick of the light throws shadows over he and Niall and he looks up to see Louis smirking down at them.

Harry’s behind him, a discreet hand carefully tucked into a pocket of Louis’ impossibly tight skinny jeans and Liam’s to Louis’ right, cupping the nape of his neck and blushing furiously.

“Something like that,” Harry laughs, hooking his chin on Louis’ shoulder and Zayn doesn’t know if he’s seen anyone so incredibly charming with dimples and soft cheeks and a smile that stretches pink lips almost ruddy.

“Sounds so,” Louis sighs, still smirking, “gay.”

Liam elbows him, jostling the smaller boy until he laughs and Liam kicks at his bare ankle for good measure.

“Shut it Lou,” Liam hisses, scrambling forward to shield them a little.

Zayn lifts his brow and Niall puffs a little quicker on the cigarette like it’s an oxygen mask in the middle of an inferno.

“I’m just taking the piss, Li,” Louis groans, looking pleased and Harry giggles into a burgundy mark on the side of Louis’ neck that Zayn wonders if he left behind.  It looks fresh and pulsing and just the shape of those plush lips of Harry’s and Zayn thinks Niall’s definition of them is the most accurate thing he’s heard in years.

Zayn pushes himself up, Niall following, and he tries his best not to square his shoulders or look intimidating but it’s a hard lesson to forget when Danny taught him how to do it so long ago.

“Horan,” Louis hums, leaning to the side to look around Liam and his smirk lightens some.  “Nice to see you still supporting the team.”

Niall snorts, folding his arms with the cigarette hanging off his lips.  “Nice to see you’re still owning the pitch like it’s yours.”

Louis shrugs, smugly, flicking his head until the fringe shakes from his eyes.  “’s a team effort.”

Zayn bites back words, sinking at the way Liam’s eyes fall to the ground like Louis’ full of shit.

“I s’ppose introductions are a bit wasted but,” Louis starts, leaning back into Harry’s strong embrace before extending a hand, “Louis Tomlinson.  They call me Tommo.  And this lovely chap with me is Harry Styles.”

“Haz,” Harry quickly adds, reaching over Louis to shake Zayn’s hand first.  “Cheers, mate.”

Zayn smiles politely, nodding as he shakes Harry’s hand, giving Louis’ a quick glare before finally accepting it.

“Zayn,” he says, cool and even.

“Malik,” Louis adds, drawing his hand back and Zayn watches the way it immediately finds Harry’s thigh, stroking it idly.

Zayn nods again, teeth shaping little marks into his bottom lip.  He tilts his head some to take in Liam – a loose Superman shirt, sweats that hang so indecently off his hips until Zayn can see the tight black briefs beneath, and his skin still looks flushed from the match with sweat shining proudly beneath the orangey street lights.  He cautiously reaches out and his fingers graze over Liam’s knuckles until eyes lift and they look at each other for soft beats of something amazing.

Louis gives them a quick once over, grinning.  “Quite taken, aren’t you Payno?”

Liam blushes furiously, kicking blindly until his foot meets Louis’ shin and the hiss from Louis is lost in the rhythm of Zayn’s too loud heartbeats.

“You were fantastic tonight, bro,” Niall interjects, rubbing excitedly at Liam’s shoulder until the contact between Zayn and Liam breaks.

Zayn tucks his chin, a warning to himself not to get caught up in stupid boys and football and the touches he doesn’t need but wants so –

“You too, Tommo,” Niall adds with a little less enthusiasm.

Louis snorts, nodding.  “Payno is really showing the other players up.  Best redshirt this team’s ever seen.”

Liam looks embarrassed and _proud_ and Zayn wants to reach out to trace the smile lines near his mouth but settles for shifting a little closer just for the warmth.

“Liam tells us you’re a really nice chap,” Harry says between the breaths of _come closer_ that Liam and Zayn share.  “Says you like art?”

Zayn swallows.  It’s not that he doesn’t like exposing himself to strangers – or anyone, actually.  Because he doesn’t.  He’s private and knows how to say _solitude_ in three other languages and those bright green eyes look at him like he’s a secret the world should know about.

“Yeah,” he breathes out instead of _what else does he say about_ _me_ and he bites furiously at a corner of his mouth until Liam stops looking at the stars and smiles on him instead.

Harry nods, pleased.  “You should check out some of the gallery shows we have here.  Nothing like London, which I must say are amazing, mate.  Fucking unreal.”

Zayn smiles, honest and wide, and Liam’s pinky traces the outline of a swallow inked onto the back of Zayn’s hand.

He cocks an eyebrow at Harry, turning his hand so Liam can tickle fingers over his palm, before saying, “I might.  Sounds chill.”

Harry laughs and it’s not mocking like he imagines it would sound coming from Louis.  It’s endearing and real and those dimples flare when his lips spread.

“A cuppa chai tea and some incredible sushi from this one place off of Ravenwood and I swear you’ll fall in love with this campus,” Harry insists, pulling some of the tension from Louis’ shoulders when his mouth drags playfully over the back of his neck.

Zayn snorts and Niall pulls in the last of the cigarette with a barking laugh.

“Styles, you’re incredibly posh and all the things this town never was,” Niall teases, reaching between them to ruffle loose curls until Harry’s giggling.

Louis narrows his eyes, protective and jealous and Zayn feels a sudden need for Google to define _friends with benefits_ because the stream of bitterness in positively glowing blue eyes doesn’t come to mind.

“Lou says I’m quite boring,” Harry laughs out, his thumb pressing into the sliver of space between skin and the waistband of Louis’ jeans.

“I did not,” Louis fusses, tilting his head back to rest on Harry’s shoulder.  “I said you’re _inhuman_.  You’re not real, you know.”

Harry shrugs but the affectionate raise of his smile says otherwise.

Zayn misses half of their banter or the way Louis and Niall grin at each while chatting up the art of the game or the way Harry looks completely bored with the talk of Premier League and Chicharito possibly leaving Manchester United.  He’s hung up in the way Liam defies shyness and anchors around gravity to slide an arm around Zayn’s tense shoulders.  His heart echoes roughly in his ears until white noise diffuses uncertainty and he leans into Liam like this is what they should do naturally.

Liam smiles into Zayn’s neck, his nose brushing just beneath Zayn’s jaw.  There’s a tickle of breath that reaches across his collarbone, over the Arabic inked into his skin and down his stretched collar.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Liam whispers as Zayn reaches back to wrap an arm around Liam’s back – _for support,_ he tells himself but it’s a lie – and Zayn hums softly.

“’m not much into public displays of affection,” Zayn teases lowly with his arm tightening around that broad back until they’re wedged firmly together.

The stereo of a car idling in the car park thrums over Niall’s laugh and Harry’s giggles and Louis’ incessantly loud banter and the curve of Liam’s smile – _There’s a million hearts beating in a row. I wish they would go away_ – and Zayn feels neon next to Liam.

“Me either but you – “

Zayn nudges his hip to Liam’s like _hello_ and _shut up_ before he adds softly, “I don’t mind.”

Liam blinks at him like the world is too bright and Zayn cups the back of his skull, soft prickly hair scratching his palm.  He chases away the hitch in his next breath with a small laugh that sends something warm over Liam’s lips.  He thinks about pressing the tip of his tongue to Liam’s birthmark but inches up to kiss the end of Liam’s nose instead.  He feels daft and it’s a little too affectionate but Liam reels in with laughter and tickles fingers over Zayn’s ribs until Zayn doesn’t bruise so easily with this feeling.

Louis talks about classes and practice and curves into Harry a little tighter with a look on his face that says _mine_ each time a wandering eye from a passing girl reaches them.  Harry nods along with useless, long stories about studies and starting University early and wanting a teaching degree just to change the system.

Niall finds a space behind Zayn and Liam with his arms stretched around both of their shoulders and Zayn lets Liam nose along his jaw, thinking in incoherent sentences and poor structure and bad form until all he wants is to paint this scene on the roof of the hospital with a cup of coffee and paint fumes threading through his lungs.  His fingers dance along Liam’s hip, learning the soft pieces and the bits where bones protrude and fancy medical terms Mary teaches him like _iliac crest_ and _greater trochanter_ seem more meaningful when Liam stops twitching beneath his touch.

Zayn doesn’t tell them much about Bradford or Ant and Danny but he chats about his sisters freely because, even here under the same roof, he misses them so much.  He catches the way Liam doesn’t talk about Noah or the hospital and he kicks at Niall’s foot when he starts on about Zayn’s volunteer duties.

“You should probably take some classes here,” Louis offers, his voice still steely and far from gentle when he directs his eyes on Zayn.  He flicks an eyebrow upward, peaking at Liam when he stiffens.  “Might be nice to see a new face around campus.”

Zayn pushes out a rough smile, scratching at his scruff thoughtfully.  “Thinking about it.”

“You _should_ ,” Harry tacks on, long fingers tracing out the scattered streaks of ink against Louis’ tan skin and none of it makes sense but Zayn decides that Harry’s own collection of bright tattoos don’t either.

“I’ll have him going to lectures and drinking coffee at Connor’s and dressed in formalwear for all of the matches in a few months,” Niall declares so smugly that Zayn can’t help but smirk.

Liam’s dull nails trace words out over the inside of Zayn’s wrist like _I hope so_ and _I will crash every night in your dorm_ until Zayn’s too afraid to tell them, in a few months, this place will be a memory and Bradford will be a _now and forever_.

His skin feels like an armor when Niall steals his last cigarette and Harry and Louis separate for oxygen and Liam keeps outlining his tattoos like the ink will transfer onto his own fingers – somewhere, he runs over the _ZAP_ tattoo until he laughs against the frame of Zayn’s collarbone and whispers things like _Winter Soldier_ and _‘I think about you whenever I watch_ the Dark Knight _and I don’t know why.’_   Something burns through his chest and he’s too sober for this kind of casual resilience against rationality.

“You’ll come to our match next week?  I’ll get you two tickets down near the pitch with Haz,” Louis suggests, rocking to something that sounds like Taylor Swift in the background – _And I know it’s long gone and that magic’s not here no more. And I might be okay but I’m not fine at all_.

Niall squeaks behind them, nudging around them until he’s tugging Louis into a too tight hug that Louis scoffs at, shoving him away.

Harry’s laugh is tenor-loud, wrapping an arm around Louis’ neck to tug him in and they’re anchored to that same undefined captivity they’ve been in for an hour now.

Zayn breathes in the leftover smoke from Niall’s – _his_ – last cigarette and Liam’s fingers pinch at his hip, his nose twitching nervously.  Fingers slide down the back of Liam’s shirt to the curve of his arse and he waits like a promise to do more until Liam fidgets beneath him and wastes away in the smile Zayn gives him.

“I’ll see if I can free up some time,” Zayn says to Liam rather than Louis but the mocking laugh that comes from Louis distracts him enough not to kiss Liam around the – _You can’t get rid of it because you remember it all too well_ – floating through the car park.

“Brilliant,” Harry says with a smirk and a free hand sliding over Louis’ stomach.  “Maybe we could meet up for cups of tea and pastry and I can show you lot around some of the finer pieces of this University.”

“You mean the parts that don’t have to do with football and studies,” Louis giggles out, nosing Harry’s neck and Harry rolls his eyes immediately.

“The best spots for fantastic weed and David Bowie vinyl,” Harry corrects, nudging off the way Louis’ lips try to stain his neck.  It’s a little disconnected and Zayn doesn’t miss the small frown on Louis’ lips or the way his eyes turn sad for a blink.

“Sounds relaxing,” Niall says, leaning into Liam’s untouched side and Zayn feels possessive for a second, biting away the feeling with white teeth on his lip.

Because Liam doesn’t fall into a personalized category like _boyfriend_ or _lover_ or _dearly beloved_.

“ _Oh_ ,” Harry gasps, tugging completely away from Louis – there’s a rustling of disappointment that Louis plays off with a mocking scowl but his armor is a little more see-through than Zayn’s – and he’s dragging Niall close for a, “We must do Breakfast Club also.  It’s tradition before we play Aston.”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow, lips curling.  “Breakfast Club?”

Harry gasps, the sound shrill and his brow wrinkles immediately.  Niall laughs while tucked into his side, pushing those damn sunglasses up until Zayn can see the disbelief in solid blue eyes.

“Rookie,” Louis says under his breath, grinning.  “He’s still new, Haz.  Shiny and new.”

“You will _not_ quote Madonna at a time like this,” Harry scoffs and Zayn catches the hum of Niall’s voice, with the _like a virgin_ attached and he’s waiting on lines like _I made it through the wilderness_ to follow.

“It is a tradition, my young student,” Niall starts and Zayn immediately wants to kick out at him but Liam’s feathery touches over the back of his neck hold him still, “that on the day of a game, all of the pubs across town open at dawn for a celebratory day of getting smashed before the first kickoff.”

Zayn lifts his brow curiously before Harry interjects, “It’s the most amazing thing, Zee.  The pubs are usually crowded with the people around town and visitors and University students.  They all get shitfaced, or close to it, for a couple of hours before heading off to the early game.”

“All of the pubs shut down just before the first kickoff on the pitch,” Liam adds, sighing with a lift to his lips – a sweet smile that blinds Zayn for a moment.

“And the students dress up in costumes, for the most part, and drink lager until they fall off their stools,” Harry cheers, instinctively reaching for a Louis that’s too far now.

Louis crosses his arms, a half-tilt to his smirk.  “Never been myself, but I heard it’s a smashingly good time.  Loads of people go.  It really amps up the crowd.”

“Smashingly good time,” Harry repeats with every lick of charm he musters naturally.

“Didn’t you once go as Sailor Moon,” Louis teases, the stars cresting his eyes.

Harry nods with a tall, tall grin that tugs at Zayn’s lips.

“Eggs, bacon, bangers and mash, and a few pints, lad,” Niall chimes, cheeks afire with a cherry glow beneath the slow moving moon.  “He who lasts the longest survives the game.”

“And the leftovers usually puke their fucking brains out halfway through the first half,” Harry chuckles, tightening his hold on Niall’s shoulders.

Zayn considers it – the game, skipping a shift at the hospital, the sweat that’ll slick Liam’s brow and the stretch of his muscles under his kit and the green, green field looking hazy after a few too many drinks – and he loosens a tight smile over his lips when Louis looks at him expectantly and Liam admires him a little softer.

He licks his lips, chasing off the grin he thinks dares to rip him in half, and the stutter of his heart when Liam tips into him forces out a quick, “I hate mornings.”

Louis laughs, unrestrained and almost friendly for once while Harry rocks into Niall and Niall’s eyes shine like Jupiter finally spotting the roundness of Mercury behind the sun.

Liam snorts, pressing a half-kiss to the corner of Zayn’s mouth and he thinks saying _‘what time should I be there’_ is just an afterthought now.

**

Breakfast Club is not quite as loud, dizzying, _alive_ as he expected.  It’s a cool Saturday morning – early, _too early_ , he thinks on repeat until he’s had enough drinks to remember a time when he knew nothing of sunrises and this stupid town – with the sky a dense painted gray and the clouds hang a little too low.  There’s lines outside all of the pubs across town, people dressed in varied costumes that border on comical and delusional in ways he can’t quite explain to Danny or Ant via short text messages.

It’s a little after seven when Niall picks him up and he’s yawning more than halfway through the drive down the cold streets, everything _empty, empty, empty_ except for the pubs and the few shops that open early for Saturday traffic.  He slumps in the passenger seat, waving off Niall’s attempts at being hyper and chipper in the morning and all he wants is his first cigarette and a cup of shitty coffee – or maybe some of that sweet breakfast tea his mum was brewing before he stumbled out the door.  And Niall plays the music on his ratty stereo a little too loudly, bobbing his head along to something Zayn doesn’t quite recognize – _Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma? I’ve seen those English dramas too. They’re cruel_ – but it’s shit college radio on a static system and Zayn curls a smile to his lips at the way Niall sings too loudly like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.

He thinks, by definition, this kind of event is more than just traditional for the town.  It’s a big fucking deal.  It shows in the effort, the thick of the crowd, the cheap drinks all in an effort to band everyone together to support the footie team.

Zayn, by a quiet admission in the mirror of the loo when no one’s around, actually _likes_ it.

He finds out, from Niall, that Louis skips out on Breakfast Club to lie-in for a couple of more hours and Liam never really sleeps on game days.  He spends the morning doing laps at the stadium, warming up drills, and trying to be _perfect_ – Zayn thinks this boy is too close to perfection already.  He doesn’t ask why or bother to call Liam just for the sound of his groggy, sleep-heavy voice in the morning but he finds it hard to deny the grin that slicks his lips when his phone buzzes and Liam’s text reads – _morng bae. have fun. See you at the game I hpe. Im a dork ;) haha_.

Harry meets them at some old, run down place called Farmer’s Den over on Apple Wood Lane – and this place is so small, quant; a simple town by all means with street names like that.  He dresses as the Mad Hatter – Tim Burton’s, not the cheesy Disney film version – with a tall hat and an even taller grin that spans the width of his face.  Those green eyes burst with hints of lemony-gold and his face is painted a disgusting pale color that takes away from the softness and sweetness, Zayn thinks awkwardly, but he plays up to the part while ordering them three beers and shots of some old well-vodka that burns on the tip of his tongue before it even makes it to his throat.

Niall is decked out like James Dean with gelled down blonde hair, Ray Bans sitting neatly on his face, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and Zayn finds it amusing because Niall is the complete opposite of things like _classic_ and _cool_ and _Rebel Without a Cause_ will never be distinctively associated with this happy little shit.

Zayn doesn’t really dress up – actually, he _refuses_ , something he tells Niall over and over until his tongue is numb with the words – but he slides into an old, tight-fitting blazer from a thrift store Niall took him to during one of their lazy walks through town.  He’s got barely-styled hair – “Rugged,” Harry tells him over their third beer – and a tight black t-shirt under the blazer with black trousers.  He refuses to shave two-day old stubble and Waliyha whistles at him while his mum looks at him – for the first time in what feels like a decade – fondly from the doorway of his bedroom.

“You look like your baba,” she said under her breath, fixing the sleeves of his blazer, straightening the material that pulls tightly around his shoulders.

“And who are you?” Niall asked when Zayn hopped into the passenger seat of his shitty old car that sticks when he shifts gears too often and the axle creaks when he turns too sharply and Zayn swears it’s going to fall apart with him in it one day.

“Tony Stark,” Zayn replied flatly with a careless shrug and he’s more than thankful when Niall merely smiles and refuses to argue the concept of ‘ _costumes’_ with him.

They down mugs of lager at Farmer’s Den for an hour, Zayn sitting back to listen to Niall and Harry trade off stories about school and classes and Vince Vaughn films like this friendship was meant to be – he hates words like _destiny_ because they’ve become contrived and meaningless over the years but he thinks, yeah, maybe with these two.  He nibbles at his lip when far too many eyes fall on him like he’s something new and mysterious and half of those looks seem carnal and he sinks a little under the glares.

“You’re a fucking riot, mate,” Niall tells him, slapping a hand on Zayn’s shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze that has Zayn’s skin buzzing.

He swallows down another shot that Harry buys, eyes squinting and face pinching.

“How do you reckon?” he asks with a rough voice, his throat burning from the bitter alcohol.

Niall shrugs, fiddling with the rolled up sleeve of his t-shirt, that one that conceals one of Zayn’s pack of cigarettes because _dramatic flair_ is taught to them by Harry halfway through their conversation.

“They’re all looking at you like you’re a hot piece of arse or something,” Niall laughs, Harry grinning from across the table with a raised brow.  “Like they’re already trying to figure out how big your cock is or summat.”

Zayn’s brow knits together immediately and he fights at that blush biting his cheeks for a beat before sighing.  He waves off the looks, chugging the rest of his beer for the lightheaded feeling that comes afterwards before putting in, “They can fuck off.  ‘m not interested.”

“I suppose that’s because your dick is far more interested in Payner, yeah?” Harry teases, his dimple flared and his grin a little too thick for Zayn’s liking.

Zayn offers him a one fingered response and the bark of Harry and Niall’s laughter outweighs the noise of the crowd and the echo of empty glasses smacking against the bar over and over.

Harry drags them to Smith’s and it’s definitely more modern with its lit up bar, smoky gray floors, blue velvet pool tables, and sleek ivory leather booths but there’s an old Union Jack hanging up in the corner to remind all of the patrons that this place is still very much _traditional_.  It’s still crowded with Uni students who drink too much and are insanely rowdy around the dart boards, but Zayn thinks it’s tolerable like a brain freeze after sipping a slurpee too fast.

They stick to more rum than vodka this time and Niall initiates a game of shots each time one of the girl sloppily walks through the door dressed as a slutty nurse or sexy feline.  Harry giggles through the first three shots, Niall’s all bursts of laughter that are contagious and unnerving because Zayn can’t stop smiling at him.  This place sticks to a few old traditions – and he’s grateful the patrons are permitted to smoke _inside_ – and Zayn lights up in a corner while thumbing through his phone, biting on his lip when a few giggly girls eye him with wet lips and bright eyes.  He smiles, casual and put on, waving little fingers at them that has them sighing sweetly and he doesn’t consider offering any of them his cock but he’s buzzed enough from the alcohol to consider letting one of them wank him off if the stalls in the offer is presented.

Cher provides the perfect distraction at River’s Pond, a few streets from the campus.  She unintentionally keeps Niall’s attention at the bar, giggling into his shoulder as he buys her drink after drink.  They shyly hold hands over a Cherry Bomb and he tangles fingers into her thick brown hair under poor lighting until Zayn has to look away, blushing _for_ Niall.

Harry’s giddy and fastened to a bottle of beer he nurses for half an hour while Zayn works his way through two cigarettes and a tall glass of cider.  He licks at the salt still lingering on his lips from the tequila shots they took when they first entered and he watches Harry get lost in the Killers for a moment – _Pay my respects to grace and virtue. Send my condolences to good. Hear my regards to soul and romance; they always did the best they could_ – before he sets bright eyes on Zayn.

“I think about taking Lou to London for the summer sometimes,” he says, a little off beat but his fingers drum in time to the music.  He strings his free fingers through his soft curls, biting on a smile.  “But I think that’s a little too romantic for mates, y’know?”

Zayn blinks at him, leaning back.  He takes a quick puff of smoke, tapping at the ash before kicking a foot up on Niall’s empty seat.

“Would that be a problem?” Zayn inquires because he hasn’t learned the defining lines in Louis and Harry’s ‘ _thing’_ yet.  Not that he’s bothered to ask Niall or anyone about it.

Harry tugs helplessly at that stupid bowtie and most of his pale makeup is faded, the dark smudges around his eyes brightening the evergreen in those irises.  He shrugs, careless but something etches into his eyes that says, loudly, _he is and he isn’t the beginning of my story_.

“We’d have a lovely time,” Harry sighs, tugging roughly at those curls again.  He blinks up through his lashes, a shyer smile creasing the corners of his mouth.  “But it’s not like that between us.  We make sure of that.”

Zayn nods slowly, dragging his fingers over the cheap wood of their table.  They pinwheel through the condensation soaking the grain from their glasses and he exhales smoke through his nose.

“Do you ever – “

“No,” Harry says immediately, swallowing hard when Zayn shoots him a look.  He laughs it off, mouthing out lyrics – _are we human or are we dancer?_ – to avoid an explanation.

“Okay,” Zayn says lazily, acutely dragging out the last letter until Harry groans.

“I mean,” Harry starts, taking a long gulp of his beer to settle his fidgeting fingers and tense shoulders.  There’s a faraway look in his eyes, his knuckles rapping on the table.  “I mean, I don’t _think_ we are.  We don’t talk about it anymore.  It’s just – “

“Casual?” Zayn offers, licking at too dry lips.  He lets his cigarette burn to the filter, hovering in that dizzy place between intoxication and nicotine high.

Harry sputters a laugh, nodding sheepishly.  He takes another drink, eyeing his glass rather than Zayn again.

“I didn’t mean for it to be,” Harry admits, his voice barely reaching over the sounds of something different – _Hey, a casual affair. We could go anywhere and only for tonight_ – and Zayn watches him carefully.

He lean in a little, his fingers spanning the distance between them to tap at Harry’s knuckles.

“Do you have feelings for him, mate?”

Harry chokes on his next breath, wide-eyed like an animal trying to be caged.  His bottom lip shakes beneath his teeth and he holds oxygen in his lungs until that pale color in his cheeks comes from the makeup and not his fear.

He sinks a little in his seat, his skin cold beneath Zayn’s fingers before he says, “It started so simply, dude.  Just wanted a fuck.  He did.  And then it was another night and another night and, I dunno, I got comfortable.”

Something slips over Harry’s eyes – _Just lay in the atmosphere. A casual affair_ – and he breathes a little less steady for a few beats.

“Bu we both get it, man.  Honestly, we do.  Like, I want to finish school and start my career and, honestly, fucking off with a chap is much easier than, y’know, getting caught up in a relationship,” Harry explains, lips trying to lift into a smile that looks a little more broken than joyful.

Zayn sniffs at cigarette smoke and too much cologne from the lads at the table next to them and orders up two more beers when the waitress slides past them.  He lets Harry make it halfway through his, Zayn taking slow sips for clarity rather than sobriety and he nudges his foot against Harry’s like _it’s okay_ and _breathe, mate, I’ve got you_.

Harry grins around a sip, cheeks flushed and Zayn can’t tell if he’s shitfaced or thankful.

“I’m fine with it,” Harry tells him, resting his chin on his knuckles, his smile deepening.  “I mean, fuck, Lou is an amazing shag – “

Zayn grimaces immediately because, fuck it all, he doesn’t want to know.

“ – but it’s all I really need, right?  Something to take the edge off,” Harry says.  He waggles his eyebrows and Zayn laughs lowly, nodding.

“Just a nut between mates,” Zayn adds, kicking out at Harry’s foot.

Harry chuckles, nodding back.  “Just a nice, good old-fashion _fuck_.  The chap is amazing with his hands and maybe I like being on my knees for the bastard.  I might like the way he lets me fuck my mouth on his cock and sometimes he makes me wiggle when he spreads me open with his tongue and – “

“ _Haz_ ,” Zayn squeaks, knocking his knee against Harry’s until Harry’s a fit of laughter and batting eyelashes.

“Sorry,” Harry mutters but he looks far from apologetic or abashed.  There’s a loud hum of pride on his lips and those cheeks are scarlet-bright, his nose crinkled.  “He just does that for me.”

_And you’re in love with him_ , Zayn thinks because _obviously_ is approximately two seconds away from finding the tip of his tongue.  He settles back into his chair instead and watches Niall lick salt off Cher’s neck, grinning when he pulls the lime from her cherry lips with his tongue and Zayn’s shoulders sink before a laugh caressing Harry’s lips.

He lights up another cigarette for a distraction but it burns off in the middle of a chat with Harry about _Doctor Who_ and he doesn’t regret waking this early for these two idiots.

Later on, after the game and behind the stadium, Liam’s touches feel so medicated and far from rushed.  He’s got that lightheaded feeling you could associate with massive alcohol intake but Zayn notches it up to the flare of nerves in Liam’s twitching smile or the way he leans in close like he wants to kiss Zayn but never does.

The air is heady with Liam’s sweat and musk and the scent of _boy_ and Zayn’s fingers feel electric as they shift under the flimsy material of Liam’s jersey, slipping on the perspiration that’s slick over Liam’s belly.  He grins at the way Liam arches into him, the curve of his spine like he’s afraid to tell Zayn he wants more.  Their legs are tangled, Zayn pressed against the brick of the stadium, and Liam’s neck is so exposed that Zayn blows hot breath against it just to feel the way Liam shivers under his hands.

“Tease,” Liam giggles, nosing Zayn’s jaw and Zayn thinks it’s just a distraction from the adrenaline still pulsing through Liam’s veins or the etch of numbness working through Zayn’s blood stream.

“I wouldn’t,” Zayn lies, biting his lower lip to stop his mouth from sucking a pretty mark into Liam’s skin.

Liam snorts, belated hands anchoring Zayn’s hips so Liam’s can drag so slowly across them and it’s too sharp and too fast for Zayn to find the outline of Liam’s cock but there’s fire underneath his skin and he mouths vowels and syllables to Liam’s jaw until the those hips stutter.  He plays up to the advantage, cupping Liam’s bum with one hand and the curve of it entices Zayn but he strays from the obvious to coil his arms around Liam’s back.  He holds him still, nuzzling his nose behind Liam’s ear and the shaky breath that exits Liam’s lungs confirms Zayn’s thoughts – he’s hiding something behind arousal and lust.

There’s something heavy and pained between them when Liam whispers, “Mummy says they want to operate on Noah.  Doctors have been ringing her up all week.  They want to remove his tonsils so he can breathe when he sleeps.”

His eyes are unfocused and he tries not to train them on the uneven frown on Liam’s lips or the circles around his eyes like he hasn’t slept for a week.

He thumbs at Liam’s mouth, trying to rub away sadness and his words get caught on a breath that’s been itching in his throat for a little too long.  He presses his free fingers around Liam’s hip and steadying him feels so innate that he doesn’t know how to live in an in-between anymore.

“Do you want me to ask my mum if they can – “

Liam shakes his head immediately, pushing further into Zayn’s space until it’s more of an _us_ rather than a _you and me_.

He breathes in the sticky scent of Liam’s after shave and faded cologne, cheap body spray he probably nicked off Andy after the game to cover up this very distinct scent of man under all of the layers.  Zayn smothers a quiet _‘I’m here’_ to Liam’s neck and whatever traps Liam’s spine in a stiff line softens so easily.

The gray skies cast a maze of shadows between them and Zayn can make out the pink in Liam’s bruised lips – his teeth chewing at it absently between breaths – but he can’t find the definitive color in his eyes this time.  It sets a cold, damp breeze on them that has Zayn curling arms around Liam’s neck and the cool tip of Liam’s nose running the sharp line of Zayn’s jaw and _lover_ feels like an extension of what he wants this to be.

He thinks of Louis and Harry and _fuck buddies_ and he thinks he should aim for that.  It’s a cold thought but reality tastes so bitter when you realize that this place isn’t _home_.  It’s not a _forever_.  It’s a _here for now_.

“It’s for his own good but,” Liam pauses after an eternity of helpless touches and there’s a hitch in his breath and Zayn’s fingers his hips for a calm that registers on Liam’s face.  “That place is like his home now.”

Zayn pulls him again until Liam’s face is buried in his neck, cold but familiar, and he mouths at those short hairs on his head until Liam stops sounding so beaten.  He lives in the irony of _‘that place is like his home now’_ and fists his hands into Liam’s jersey just to feel his heavy heartbeat.

It anchors him to this place a little longer.

**

He takes up a few more night shifts when Noah checks in days before his surgery.  He tells himself it’s to learn more about post-surgical recovery and sleep disorders and the difference between anxiety and _insomnia_ but he knows it’s really to watch over Noah.  He knows it’s because it’s the only thing he can think to do to calm Liam through their late chats on the phone or the way a cup of strong coffee and a few cigarettes is doing little to make him comfortable anymore.

It’s the middle of the week when he finds Liam tucked into Noah’s bed, half-past visiting hours, with Noah pressed deep into his side while watching Tigger try to force Pooh out of the honey tree.

Zayn drags that impossibly uncomfortable steel chair from by the window closer to the bed and plops down into it with his sketchbook in his lap and fingers already stained from pencil lead.  He sighs from exhaustion and nerves that he buries beneath buzzing skin while Liam smiles softly into the crown of Noah’s head.

“Lou is pretty pissed with me,” Liam admits halfway through the silence they keep waltzing around, dragging slow fingers through Noah’s curls while Noah sips at a juice box.

Zayn blinks up from his paper, something twitching at the corner of his mouth.  He sketches lazily, balancing his pad on his knees and the dark of the room is only made warmer by the blue from the telly and the ivory of the moon.

“Skipped out on a party tonight,” Liam confesses, still smiling.  He kicks at the blankets on Noah’s bed until his legs are exposed and those thin trackie’s outline the muscles in his thighs.  “I mean, he has Haz but he really wanted me to go.  Not like I get on with his crowd or whatever.”

Zayn snorts, nodding.  He doesn’t imagine Liam does but still.

“Remember the time you told me you like to write,” Zayn whispers, his voice scratchy from a cigarette he had hours ago.

Liam pushes out a shifty grin.  “I _try_ to write.  Just little ideas in my head.”

Zayn nods, tipping his head back to admire Liam.  He can’t help the way his fingers have curled around that pencil to sketch out this scene – Liam with an arm tucked around Noah, the smaller boy woven so neatly to Liam’s side that they look almost like father and son.  There’s a soft fall to Noah’s curls and Liam’s hoodie nearly swallows them both in thickness.  His black socks only reach the rim of his ankle and Noah’s hospital gown is wrinkled green, the ID bracelet around his wrist catching hints of the light when he shifts to get closer to Liam.

“You said you had ideas for comics?” Zayn inquires, tilting his head some and his fingers smudge out the sharp curve of Liam’s jaw in the dark.

Liam chuckles.  “I’m a bit nerdy.”

“You’re not,” Zayn says before his tongue can curl the words back in.  He dips his chin a little, the blush rapid and spreading.  He sighs against the restraint in his chest.  “Tell me about ‘em.  The ideas.”

Liam does with some sort of awe in his voice.  Zayn listens intently, still drawing out the curves of Liam’s muscles and the shorn hair on his head.  He captures the roundness of Liam’s eyes, tries to shade in the blue of Noah’s lips from the medication.  He grins with his eyes lowered when Liam goes on about superheroes and _Spider-Man_ and the obvious need for an anti-hero to every great story.

There’s a wrinkle to Liam’s lifted brow when Zayn tips his eyes up and they share a smile that feels like a secret in Zayn’s chest.  He finds himself drawing Liam as a superhero across the page, spandex stretched and a large symbol – something simple like an _‘L’_ – in the center of his chest as he guards over Noah.

“Maybe one day we could do it together,” Zayn mumbles, shaking off the crimson flicking against his cheeks when Liam’s eyes go a little wide.  “You could come up with the stories and I could draw them out.  Our own little comic.”

Liam smiles, wide and amazed and Zayn wants to tag on _our own little love story_ but that feels hypocritical.  It feels… _right_.

He listens to the tickle of Liam’s laughter and he’s so boyish and young and happy.  He chats about Batman and goes through a list of his favorite titles with kicking feet.  There’s something properly brilliant about the flick of his smile and the way his mouth rounds wider when Zayn laughs with him, Noah ever lost in Winnie the Pooh and his adventures.  The sound of their voices slice through silence and Zayn tries to hide his affectionate grin behind his knuckles when Liam chats lowly about the kind of superhero he would be with those eyes like a puppy and that smile fresh like winter snow.

It’s intoxicating is what it is and Zayn refuses to deny it.  He sinks into it, paralyzed by the way Liam’s eyes crinkle and his fingers fidget like he doesn’t know how to restrain a need to reach out and touch Zayn.

When Noah’s asleep – or as close to it as he gets with loud snores, shortness of breath, a suffocating sound that still shakes Zayn – Zayn tucks away the sketchbook and reaches over the divide to rub his fingers over Liam’s bare ankle.

“I’ve always wanted to take him on a proper camping trip,” Liam admits, his voice a curled softness.  He leans into Zayn’s touch with a smirk that’s half-hidden behind Noah’s curls.  “Just a trip to the woods with a fire and tents and marshmallows on a stick.”

Zayn snorts, nodding.  His thumb strokes over tan skin and he looks up through his lashes to catch the hum of something sweet in Liam’s eyes.

“He loves the outdoors.  Wanted to teach him how to play football in the field or climb trees,” Liam adds, tangling a few of his fingers in Noah’s curls.  “Been trying to save up some quid from odd jobs to take him to the States.  Maybe go to Disneyworld, as cheesy as it sounds.”

“It doesn’t,” Zayn assures him, curling his fingers around Liam’s heel.

“Yeah?” Liam wonders with bright eyes, wrinkling his nose and biting on a laugh when Zayn’s fingers tickle up his calf.

“That would be _sick_.”

“Yeah,” Liam whispers, crescent streaks of pink blush smoothed against his cheeks.  “Just to see some bloke dressed up as Winnie the Pooh and Christmas at Magic Kingdom.”

Zayn smirks, his eyes crinkled up with stilled fingers.  “You’d make a bloody ace father.”

They share a beat of silence with smiles, tinted cheeks, and Zayn thinks he’s never known something so casually warm before.

“Is it okay that I wanted to see him,” Liam says too softly under the sound of Christopher Robin’s voice, “but I wanted to see you too?”

It feels so familiar, this smile that beats on his lips and the way he just wants to wiggle into that bed to make the three of them fit so can he chase away his thoughts with kisses against Liam’s jaw.  He sucks in a tight breath instead, looking up through severely long lashes until he can make out the pink tint of Liam’s cheeks in the shadows.

“S’okay,” he replies, his voice dragging.  His fingers shape the bones in Liam’s ankle, the taut skin that trembles under Zayn’s touch.  “Louis might hate you though.”

Liam shrugs, chewing on his lip but it does little to disfigure the smile on his lips.

“He sort of hates everyone.  I think he makes a rule to hate at least five people a day.  It keeps him balanced.”

Zayn snorts, dragging his chair closer and the scrape of metal against linoleum doesn’t grate as loud as his heart when Liam shifts further toward the edge to offer Zayn more places to touch.

**

“So what is he for you?”

Zayn looks up over the rim of his glasses, quirking an eyebrow and he’s only been half-listening to all the things Niall’s been going on about since they sat down in that nice coffee shop a few meters away from campus for cardboard cups of something heady and strong.  He’s been pretending not to watch the clock behind Niall’s head for the past hour because he knows Liam’s class is almost over and the promise of meeting him somewhere on the lawn for smiles and a few useless chats about their day warms him in ways the coffee won’t.

Niall looks rumpled today with his hair down and soft, his clothes wrinkled, and a stack of textbooks weighing down half the table.  Not that Niall’s actually _opened_ any of the books or given half a thought to _Gray’s Anatomy_ or the functions of the brachial plexus but Niall covers it all up by buying Zayn’s coffee and recapping every season of _Supernatural_ for Zayn while he halfheartedly thumbs through a game of Angry Birds on his phone.

He’s wearing some stupid neon pink shirt that’s blinding Zayn from across the table and it’s for some event that the Block Party is hosting later on in the evening, everything about the tint making the harsh blue of Niall’s eyes dimmer and dimmer.

Zayn scratches at the shaven skin of his cheek and fondly misses the bite of scruff beneath his fingertips before he sips slowly on his still warm coffee.

“What d’you mean?  And _who_?”

Niall snorts, kicking at Zayn’s shin and Zayn strikes back in retaliation.  They grin at each other, short and meaningful because their friendship – he’s established that this is what this thing between them is now – is fireproof and angled on their inability to remain mature around each other.

There’s a slow lift to Niall’s eyebrows and – _oh_.  Him.

Zayn stirs in his chair a little, fingers twitching for that cigarette he skipped on their walk over here, and he feels the pull of something steely and cold in his spine.

“I don’t,” he pauses, licking at his lips, and this is the clear and raw definition of _unsteady_ , “I dunno, mate.  I mean – “

Niall holds up a hand immediately, a chaste flow to his smile that quivers in the middle of Zayn’s bones.

“S’okay to be confused, bro.  Look at me – I’m a complete failure at things like romance and, by all means, chivalry is dead with me,” Niall explains, the easy curl of his lips in an upward fashion so damn encouraging that Zayn can’t help the way his mouth forms a smile.  “But you have to admit that, well, it’s different with you two.”

_It is_ , Zayn thinks, his brow pulled tightly together.  He drags the pad of his thumb across his lips to stop himself from biting them raw.

“Have you ever just,” Zayn starts, the words so heavy and his throat feels completely dry.  He leans forward in his chair, Niall mirroring him because the cagey look in Zayn’s eyes says _this is a secret_.  “Just woke up one day and realized that you might have fallen when you weren’t trying to?”

There’s a rush of people and two more cups of coffees placed in front of them before Niall grins and nods slowly.  He reaches out, dragging the rough of his fingers over Zayn’s knuckles and suddenly the foothill of books between them seems miniscule compared to the absence of words they should’ve said long ago.

“It happens, man,” Niall whispers, a scratchiness to his voice like smoke still clouds his throat.  A quiet laugh follows his words and Zayn doesn’t feel discouraged.  He waits until Niall smiles, adding, “And y’know, even if you keep pretending to stick around, I hope you really mean it.”

Zayn nods, lips still and his heart blocking oxygen from flowing down his throat.

Niall leans back, still grinning, before ordering up the next round of coffee before they start their second.  He flips open one of his books but his spare fingers stay close enough that Zayn can touch them just in case that nerving feeling inside of him – the one that’s _run, run away fast_ – sparks a little too bright in their silence.

He thinks of Liam and class ending and kissing him slow in the middle of the lawn instead.

**

Noah hums along softly to ‘Rumbly in my Tumbly’ with the smooth purple shadows of his room blanketing the walls around them.  The night fixes itself to the sky like raindrops along a spider-web, crystalized stars high in the shift of navy and coal black and something inside of Zayn itches, that feeling that this cold room feels more like _peace_ than the room in his parent’s home.

He sips at a rough coffee, leaning into the warmth of Noah’s small frame while stretched out on Noah’s bed.  He peeks up from where he’s doodling Tigger on the corner of a few University applications his mum dropped off before his shift started – “They have a great art program and a fantastic music program, sunshine.  Remember when you’d sit in your room for hours singing and writing music?” she whispered with such enthusiasm that Zayn found it hard to remind her that was back in Bradford, his _home_ – to watch Noah’s small feet kick back and forth to the music.

Noah flips leisurely through a thick book of cartooned trains that Zayn bought him, sucking on his lower lip and he looks so pale beneath the sterile glow of the overhead light.  His skin looks ashen, poorly – though Zayn knows it’s not, fingers tiptoeing over those cheeks every time Noah trembles from the chill of the hospital – and his curls are a little flatter.  The medicine the nurse administered an hour ago has yet to fully take over but Zayn keeps waiting, keeps tangling long fingers into smooth curls.

“Sleepy yet?” Zayn asks, his own voice low and rough like he needs sleep instead of Noah.

“No,” Noah drags out, eyes still on the pages of his book.

Zayn nods, teeth pricking at a corner of his bottom lip before he returns to sketching.

He stretches with Noah’s soft yawn, scooping an arm around his tiny body to tug Noah closer until half of Noah’s head rests along his ribs.  He knows Noah needs sleep – his surgery scheduled far too early in the morning – but he refuses to fight Noah on it.

In the distance of his mind, he thinks he likes the company of Noah.  The quiet, the humming, the way he feels more and more at ease with Zayn.

There’s heavy footfalls reverberating off the walls in the hall and Zayn looks up through long, thick eyelashes at Liam in the doorway with sweat shining slick off his forehead and labored breaths breaking past pink lips.  His jersey sticks to his skin, his sweats sliding low when Liam stretches to straighten himself, and Zayn’s tongue slips over his lips to lick out a slow smile.

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Noah calls, his voice a little weak but still vibrant.

Liam’s pants proceed his smirk, a heavy hand reaching up to run over prickly hairs.  His trainers squeak on the floor as he shyly walks in and Zayn takes to breathing in slow breaths to disassemble the rhythm of his heart into something a little more bearable.

“’m sorry,” Liam says a little breathily, his hand sliding to cup the nape of his neck and he stands at the foot of the bed until Noah – and Zayn – make a noise of discontent.  “I didn’t mean to forget.  Mummy nearly killed me and – “

“Hey,” Zayn mumbles, his teeth still pulling tightly at his lip and his smile stretches a little wider when Liam blinks at him.

Liam swallows, his chest still rising and falling a little too quickly.  His expression turns soft, nearly muted before he whispers, “Hello.”

Zayn snorts, combing his fingers through Noah’s curls to stop the need to reach out and drag Liam into the bed.  He sneaks a smile over his chapped lips and it’s returned instantly.

“We lost,” Liam says quietly, his eyes falling away a little while he moves from foot to foot like… like Noah does when he’s anxious about something.

Zayn takes in a sharp breath, tangling his legs in the sheets and the downward tug of Liam’s lips bleeds into his system without a warrant.  He shifts closer to the plastic railing and he considers getting up, leaving behind a warm, frail body for a colder, fuller kind of feeling but he curls his fingers into the stiff sheets instead.

“Lou played really good.  They all did,” Liam mutters, still stroking the toe of his trainer over the ground, glancing up every so often just to make sure they’re still there.

Noah rocks into Zayn while Zayn bites heartily at his lip again until he can taste coppery blood and his senses have never felt so numb.

“Niall says you were great,” Zayn finally says, dragging his tongue over his lips.

Liam blinks up, a twitch to his mouth that begs for a smile.

Zayn grins instead, nodding for that small confirmation he knows Liam needs.  There’s a twist of something sweet against pink lips and Zayn imagines they taste like sweat and something awfully sweet and _Liam_.  Fuck, he wants to embed that taste against his tongue for a lifetime.

“I just,” Liam breathes a little steadier but it’s still pinched and rugged, “I just wanted to check on him.  I didn’t want him to be alone and mum says she’ll be here bright and early for the surgery.  But I had to make sure – “

Zayn nods slowly, still lost on his own smile.  “I know, babe.  Been with him since your mum left.”

Something collapses on Liam’s face that feels like a _thank you_ but reads like a _‘what would I do without you._ ’  It puts a tremor into Zayn’s blood, white hot but the aftertaste is cold like January.

Noah wiggles against his side, looking impatient and overwhelmed and the words he tries to speak are just stuttered and stumbling.  His eyes grow wide with defeat until he finally slaps a hand on the bed in the small space of emptiness to say, “Sit.  Sit, _Leeyum_ , sit.  Please, sit.”

His voice is coarse from exhaustion but still firm.

Liam giggles, cheeks flared pink, the hue of freshly spun cotton candy.  He tugs the jersey from his sticky skin, flashes of nicely tanned flesh that Zayn admires for too long, before toeing off his trainers and padding over to the bed.

Zayn fits himself closer to the railing and the plastic frame squeaks, the bed wails under Liam’s weight as the mattress sinks further in.  Noah’s wedged between their hips, sitting a little elevated and Zayn wonders, subconsciously, if maybe Liam’s trying to get even closer without nudging Noah from the divide.  He waves off those thoughts to admire the smile that’s sticky sweet against Liam’s lips, the way his eyes are soft but tired looking.  His lips buzz with the need to press hollow kisses to Liam’s birthmark, to wrestle words against the skin of Liam’s collarbone until Liam forgets losing the game, watching his nephew like this, everything that’s hurt and singed him before Zayn ever came here.

Noah lolls his head until it rests against Zayn’s shoulder, holding the book in his lap before Liam steals it away and fits it in that small stitch of space between them.  His lids fall heavy over cinnamon eyes and Zayn runs his fingers into Noah’s curls until he’s yawning again, at peace.

He chews thoughtfully on his lip, listening intently as Liam reads to Noah, exaggerating his voice for all of the characters and humming like a slow moving train.  There’s a moment where he nearly misses Liam reaching over Noah to twine their fingers together over the blankets Zayn pulls up over them but the calloused tips rub at Zayn’s knuckles and they’re shared smiles illuminate bright in the dark.

“Thank you,” Liam finally whispers, his thumb mapping out places Zayn wants to add more ink.

Zayn nods but something in Liam’s eyes says that little piece of gratitude reaches further than Zayn lying in the dark with Noah.  He smiles to get over the shock of it all and, even when Noah whines and kicks a little, scoots closer until his hip is pressed to Liam’s and the small aches their fingers leave behind feels nothing like the hot burn of his lips against Liam’s neck, licking away salty sweaty and calming Liam just as quick.

**

Zayn’s mum once warned him that attachment, in its most brilliant form, is easily the downfall of everyone in her profession.  It’s never intentional – nor does it decide the cold from the warmhearted – but it happens like a blindside or a car wreck that you can’t quite stop even when it’s seconds from happening.  It’s acquired, mainly through the sheer need for human contact and understanding and a patient that sticks around a little too long.

He wasn’t quite attached to Max, though it felt near.  He thinks about Katie, sometimes Carly and Johnny too but not enough that it stings his insides in that kind of assault that feels like _near-death_ rather than _fond memorandums_.  It’s always the scent of clean, stiff sheets folded at the corners and another bed that will be cold until the next child warms that lumpy mattress for a few days, maybe weeks.

It’s unfortunate, he thinks, that the laws written into these walls are just another decree of life he ignores.

He’s scratching dull nails at the back of his neck, thick hair catching on his fingers while leaning against the wall opposite Noah’s room.  It’s more of a slouch rather than a lean and he finds it a struggle to stand upright when his heart is so far into his stomach that the acid is burning away the thick layers of it.  He twists his lighter in his hand, flicking the flame occasionally for a distraction but the sizzle of fire doesn’t beat as loud as Karen’s soft whimpers or the way the plastic railing shakes every time Nicola grips it too tightly.

There’s winter on his tongue rather than spring, that bitter coldness that bleaches your bones.  He scuffs the heel of his trainers on the floor he’s left enough marks on to map his descent to the emergency exit.  He watches Karen pace the room, feet growing heavier and heavier until she collides with Liam’s chest and he draws her in to settle the shock of her shaking.

“He’s fine mummy,” Liam whispers, his voice so stricken with rasp that Zayn wants to make him promise never to smoke again.  “He’ll wake soon.”

Zayn scoffs, low and drops his chin when he realizes no one really hears him.

He doesn’t know all the medical terms or definitions or the effects of anesthesia on small children but he knows enough from stupid television dramas to know there should be an ‘ _if’_ attached to Liam’s words somewhere.  And he blames that on never believing on the wistful thoughts of some people because reality burns so sharp against his skin.

Teeth tug at his bottom lip when Nicola slumps over the bed, running a trembling hand over Noah’s pale forehead, wiping away the sweat and crease of his brow.  It’s the first time he’s ever really looked on her – white blonde hair, cheeks that look softer than Liam’s but there’s age around her eyes and a sense of something darker like she knows what it means to be shitfaced on illusions just to deal with life’s anticlimactic surprises.  He’s seen her in the halls, once or twice, but there’s never been an introduction or a _‘so you’re the lad that keeps distracting my little brother’_ but he thinks it hangs between them like _‘one day’_ or _‘you’re just a word in a meaningless sentence in the novel of my brother’s life.’_

He thinks that last part is a bit pessimistic or over-dramatized but it tastes like _authenticity_ at the back of his throat.

Maybe he won’t ever be that for Liam and it’s okay.

Or it’s not, but willingness to admit such things takes courage and Zayn would rather paint the walls of this town in graffiti than sink in his feelings for this stupid, beautiful boy.

“The doctors said – “

Zayn turns his head away to avoid hearing all of Karen’s words.  He’s overheard it all – the way Noah fought the drugs and how his lungs are still so underdeveloped and the _‘this is just a small fix’_ that kind, silver-haired Doctor Clifford said while peeling off his plastic gloves and shaking his head.  There’s an impatient shiver to Karen’s bottom lip and Liam shoots her a hopeful look like he’s seconds from ditching Clark Kent for a rep cape and spandex.

He smiles to himself, tilting his head.  He wants to sketch the strength of Liam’s jaw and the pulse of his smile and the definition in his arms when he curls them around Nicola.

There’s lines of burnt off tears down Nicola’s cheeks and Karen walks the room in circles again, whispering little prayers but Liam’s soft smiles and welcoming arms every time the air in the room gets a little thinner.  He’s humming something so familiar – _How can I believe, when this cloud hangs over me, you’re the part of me that I don’t wanna see forget it_ and Zayn’s grown to love Harry’s penchant for shitty college radio when Liam whispered this to him two Saturdays ago behind the stadium – while pushing loose curls off Noah’s forehead.  Strength is coiled into his spine, bravery written into his lips, and Zayn nibbles at his thumbnail while trying to see the chips in this armor.

“Hey sunshine,” Tricia whispers and Zayn startles a little when she slides next to him on the wall, her hand steady against his hip, her scent strong like those spices she used when he was a toddler.

Zayn breathes out a greeting, dropping his brow when Karen chokes out a sob into her fist.

His mum’s head rests on his slumped shoulder and he leans into her, trying to siphon some of that distance that still sits between them.  And it feels like a universe, a sky of stars, a fucking _ocean_ between land and home and he’s never quite gotten used to this feeling.

“He’s amazing, yeah?” Tricia says, a small curl to her smile that Zayn doesn’t notice immediately.  “So brave.”

“Yeah,” Zayn sighs, eyeing Noah and the tubes shoved into his open mouth.  His nails scratch along the dull paint on the walls until he’ll have to spend hours digging the chips of ivory from beneath them.

Tricia smirks, nudging his hip.  “And he’s so good with Noah.”

Zayn blinks for a moment, his spine curving and he cranes his neck to look at her because, no, she’s not talking about Noah.

Tricia winks at him, fingers pinching his hip.  “A mum knows, sunshine.  Trust me, we always do.”

“Knows what?” Zayn says with a small shrug and his voice sounds defensive.  His scowl doesn’t hold long when she laughs quietly, pressing out the wrinkles in his lavender shirt.

“Zayn, please.  There’s nothing to do around this hospital but gossip,” Tricia insists, lips spinning sideways in that way Waliyha’s do when she catches Zayn in a lie.  “But I knew before the others did.”

Zayn narrows his eyes, teeth scraping at his lip until the flesh tears.  He thuds his head against the wall, looking into the room rather than that amused glint in his mum’s eyes.

“’s bullshit,” Zayn hisses and the sting of her palm on his hip doesn’t hurt as much as the way Karen hovers over Noah’s bed.

“You’re such rubbish, sunshine,” she teases, nudging her shoulder to his arm, “Anything to sound like you don’t care about anything, right?  I swear, I don’t know where your baba and I – “

Zayn snorts, eyes squinting.  “C’mon mummy.  We don’t need to discuss that.”

It’s a sea of unspoken words that holds them in a wired silence.  He knows it’s never discussed – this thing between his baba and mum.  He’s seen it for years now, the way every little crack and sliver in the glass has finally wore the structure thin of support.  The fact that they’re only together for Safaa and Waliyha, maybe him.  Doniya had long given up on the notion that their parents were still in love or even enamored with each other’s presence.

Bitterly, he thinks it’s the foundation for his constant desire to run back to Bradford.

Not for home; for _escape_.

Tricia sighs, pushing fringe from her forehead, tapping out little notes of comfort to his hip until he falls into her again.

“It’s okay for you to fancy him,” Tricia whispers, leaning up so the words knit between them rather than escaping into the room that’s already crowded with whimpers, tight breaths of tear-soaked exhales, noisy machines, and the burn of discomfort.

Zayn clears his throat softly, holding his next breath like a fistful of oxygen in his chest.

“I don’t.”

Tricia giggles, mocking him.  “Oh come on, sunshine.  Not even his smile?”

Zayn sighs, dropping his chin to hide his grin.  He doesn’t know if it’s enough to hide to rush of pink against his cheeks, seeping into the skin of his neck and heating his chest.  “Not even.”

“He’s quite fit,” Tricia jokes, patting at Zayn’s chest until he finally breathes.  “And he’s a sweet boy, sunshine, he really is.  So loving.  The kind of boy a mum would want her son to fall – “

“I need a cigarette,” Zayn interjects, his voice gravelly.  _Suffocation_ , he thinks, and Waliyha’s voice turns and turns in his head.

Tricia rolls her eyes, nudging off of him.  “You should quit that habit.”

_You should quit pretending_ , he thinks, nodding at her instead because being polite isn’t so hard when his heart beats for her touch.  He draws her into a half-hug instead, pressing a chaste kiss to her temple and not looking at Liam before he stumbles down the hall is the worst pressure his chest has felt.

His hands are shaking in an uncontrollable way when he goes to light his fag and the flame burns and licks at his fingers when he cups a hand over it to keep the wind from blowing it out.  The first drag doesn’t taste as sweet as _serenity_ or _euphoria_ and he blames it on his mum.

Or his stupid heart.  Stupid, fucking, undeserved heart.

There’s a nip at his eyes, the corners itching with a burn, and everything turns glassy for a moment.  He sniffs, hauling down half a draw from the filter that waits on his tongue and he refuses to blink.  He lets his eyes fill and the gloss of muted green and bright sun are like stained glass windows.  He exhales a shaky breath, reaching for his phone, dragging the heel of his hand over his nose to stop his sniffling.

Noah won’t move.  Just a slow fall of his chest, over and over, but he won’t _move_.

It grips him like metal chains and he tips his head back when the first few tears run warm and salty over his lips.

“Fuck,” he growls, kicking at grass and swallowing hot smoke.  “What the fuck.”

His skin feels cold, artic, and he keeps looking to that heavy metal door for Liam to fall out and save him.  He doesn’t and Zayn’s thankful.  The _‘get the fuck out of my life’_ sits on his tongue until he swallows it and regret pours over him like fat drops of rain in the middle of May.

He twitches his nose, holds the cigarette loosely between his lips, and thumbs through his contacts until he reaches Danny.  He refuses to call, not with his voice this shaky and his lungs this tight.  He thinks of authors and short summaries to grab the reader’s attention and taps out just a few words in a message: _this town is gonna ruin me mate_.

Zayn pockets the phone because he doesn’t want to wait on a response.  He sucks down thick smoke until his lungs catch fire and everything goes a weak numb like Novocain.  He thumbs at the ink on his forearm until he remembers Bradford and places like this never existed there.  His knees give way a little, his wiry frame sinking against the wall, and the heel of his palm scrubs away thick tears until he understands _brave_ again.

The wait for Liam to cross through that door keeps his eyes fixed but it never happens.

He doesn’t think he could express his gratitude without this guilt punching his gut.

**

“If you don’t stop fucking with your stupid quiff every six seconds, I swear – “

Zayn steals a glance at Niall from the glass of a closed shop as they move through the square.  His eyes narrow but his lips curl upward for a “fuck off.”

Niall snorts, nudging Zayn with his elbow, and even in the dusty sprinkle of tangerine light from the street lamps, his smile lights up the night like three suns.

There’s a small lift of Niall’s shoulders like a half-arsed shrug and he looks every bit of John Bender with torn jeans, a wrinkled white t-shirt beneath flannel and denim but there’s high top trainers replacing boots and his hair is aerodynamic with fistfuls of product he stole from Zayn earlier.  He alternates between letting the stars spark off of cerulean blue eyes and the lenses of his dark, dark sunglasses.

And Zayn will never understand his explanation for wearing shades under the cloak of the night other than some silly film Niall watched about London boys and _vintage-apparel cool_ , as Niall says it.

Zayn stops to chance a glance in the window of a closed coffee shop, the one just off the rear of the campus, fingers pulling at stiff strands of faded copper hair at the front before sighing.  He should’ve stayed at home – his parents’ home, not that city that seems long forgotten after being here so long – but Niall was persistent about them getting out, going down to an after game celebration.  Zayn was fine with Tolkien and _Scarface_ and the itchy duvet he has in his room but Ashton, some too hyper kid who lives off Red Bull and Coke that’s in the Block Party with Niall, invited him and refusal seemed so opportune on his tongue until Niall _begged_.

He sort of hates the pull of this leather jacket on his shoulders and the way his dark denim jeans hang off his slim hips.  His fingers drag over the freshly clipped sides of his hair and his black _Dark Side of the Moon_ t-shirt pulls tight across his chest until the prism stretches too wide.

“You look fine, you idiot,” Niall says, hooking his chin over Zayn’s shoulder while reaching forward to straighten Zayn’s shirt.  “He’ll definitely want to fuck you.”

Zayn groans, nudging Niall back and pretending the thunder of his laughter doesn’t stir something in his stomach.  He tucks a cigarette behind his ear instead and follows Niall down broken sidewalk with the night raging around them and the town so dead behind them.

The Golden Kamo is a bankrupt hibachi restaurant in the heart of the square on campus that some brilliant University grads purchased and turned into something resembling a discothèque.  Its dark windows shade off the rage colors and pulsing electricity inside with a floor-length mirror along one very long wall and shoji doors separate pieces of the expansive room for an all-inclusive VIP section.  The hibachi griddles have been turned into makeshift bars that flow with beer taps and glasses filled with amber or clear liquid and the lights spin dizzily with greens, blues, bright pinks, unfavorable yellows that dye the skin a mustard hue.

It’s moderately tame, except for the music which blends a harsh stream of techno with house music and shreds of rock, electronica, Justin Timberlake underneath Swedish House Mafia with an accent of Bastille that Zayn’s sure Harry loves.  There’s crops of University kids all over, some post-graduates while others are still freshers with their backwards snapbacks and unending adoration for flat beer and crisps.  Most are still slathered in University gear, with their black and gold and faces half-painted now and Zayn can spot each member of the footie team without trying.

“ _Sick_ , innit?” Niall shouts above a mix of Boy George and Kelis, grinning manically.

His eyes glow florescent cobalt underneath an unnecessary range of black lights and Zayn bites his lip to hold back the _‘fuck no’_ waiting on the center of his tongue.

Smoke filters through the room from some cheap fog machine and the blue from wasted cigarettes, hidden joints that are passed around like secrets and whispered promises.  It tickles his nostrils before he thinks of places like this, crowded with grinding bodies and Danny and Ant to his left and right.  It draws up the smallest of smiles that satiates Niall enough that he pushes off of Zayn to order them beers and caramel-tasting amaretto – a drink Niall is a complete lovesick puppy for while Zayn tolerates it for its heady coffee aftertaste.

Niall gets caught in the laughter of a few Block Party mates – mainly Ashton but there’s that goofy kid Luke who giggles a little too much after three beers and Calum with his exotic eyes and bubble gum pink smile and a calmness that balances out the other two – while Zayn hangs off the bar pretending to listen to Andy’s play by play from the game or sharing smiles with Charlotte who keeps looking at him like she wants to fuck him against the cool metal of the hibachi.  He merely orders up another beer, sinking away when the music moves from Stars to a cool breeze of Prince and Drake, losing himself in the shadows and blitz of green lasers.

He sinks into an oddly comfortable, plushy purple chair in a corner of the room to eye Niall as he grinds up behind Cher, laughing into her neck, nervous fingers playing along her hips like they don’t know where to rest.  Zayn snorts at that – the lack of skill has become more than just comical – before lighting up a cigarette.  He tries not to scan the room for chocolate eyes, a smile that tastes like inebriation, thick eyebrows, hands that heal untouched wounds inside of Zayn.  He can’t find Liam in the crowd or near the door and when that pretty blonde Amelia offers him a rum-pineapple mix and a dance, he tosses back the drink and begs her off for another song.

“Cheers mate,” Andy says when he corners Zayn, between a couple of dancing girls and a large scale painting of a kabuki.  He tips his beer at Zayn and Zayn stirs the melting ice cubes in his Jack and Coke until Andy’s a little more interesting to look at than the two girls snogging.

Zayn smirks, tipping his head back.  “Yeah, right.  Good game.”

Andy laughs, thick and drunken before nodding.  “My boy did great.  Or should I say, _‘our boy’_ huh.”

Zayn narrows his eyes at the stiff rise of Andy’s eyebrows, the way he scratches at his scruff to hide his large smile.

“Should you?” Zayn challenges, slurping on his drink until the amber liquid coats his throat and shoves down angry words.

Andy shrugs, laughing again.  It’s not mocking, not intentionally.

“I love that dolt,” Andy declares, leaning against the wall next to Zayn.  He examines Zayn’s drink like he’s trying to steady himself while the thump of Usher parades in the background.  “Did he tell you I’ve known him since he was a wee infant.  Fucking best mate I’ve ever had, bro.  Couldn’t imagine life without ‘im.”

Zayn nods, still sipping at his drink until the ice cools the fever against his lips.

Andy eyes him favorably for a moment before whistling.  “Arse over tit about you, I can tell.  He won’t say it and probably shouldn’t.  He’s got school and something to prove.  Always the underdog.”

The crackle of Andy’s laugh is only muffled by his lips wrapping around his beer bottle.  He groans and Zayn drags his fingers through sticky hair that’s loosening and begging for more product.

“He doesn’t have to worry about me,” Zayn says low enough, a sudden need to replace the ‘ _he_ ’ with a _‘you’_ when Andy lowers his eyes.

“Fuck right,” Andy mumbles, crinkling his brow.  “But just in case – he’s never really done this.  I mean, the mates know he has, y’know, this thing for other lads.  Sort of.  But he hasn’t really gone for it.  We love him and respect him, but he’s more than unsure of himself.”

Zayn’s jaw tightens and his fingers claw at his glass until it threatens to crack and slice through his flesh.

“Not that you’re some arsehole but c’mon bro, this shit is pretty fucking _new_ for him,” Andy explains with a slow slur.  “It’s new for all of us.  And if it’s not his thing, cool.  There’s still plenty of pussy for the Payner to dive into ‘round here.  Find a nice little wife, fuck about and have a couple of brats.  Still love ‘im.”

Zayn hides his snarl beneath Miley Cyrus and a fast-paced mix of Celine Dion that’s drowned out by the pound of his heart in his ears.  He swallows the last of his drink before pushing off the wall, only making it halfway past the girls before Andy’s thick fingers curl possessively around his wrist.

He tries not to snatch away but there’s something yielding in Andy’s eyes under the dark and spinning lights.

“I like you Malik, honestly,” he says, his voice rough but kind.  His smile slides gentle and Zayn bites at his lip for the _‘fuck you’_ waiting to escape.  Andy nods before adding, “I think you’re good for the mate.  Just don’t know if he sees it yet, ‘s all.”

Zayn nods, his jaw flexing before he jerks his arm from Andy’s loose grip.  He trudges shaking fingers through his hair and doesn’t bother to flip Andy off while stomping away but the thought crosses his mind enough for him to slip through the crowd down a dark hall just to breathe anything but this rattling energy beating against his skin.

He’s not sure how he misses the stiff groan or the drawn out whimper that sounds like a shouted prayer before he nudges through the door to the loo but it catches him off guard when something deep rattles out of Harry’s chest and Louis bites at his shoulder with a grin.

There’s a couple of pinkish bruises tattooed across Harry’s neck, Louis’ tight jeans tangled around his ankles, one of Harry’s legs hiked up on the basin.  Pretty little fingertip bruises adorn Harry’s hips, a forgotten condom lying useless on the tiles of the bathroom.  Harry’s thighs are shiny with too much lube, his pinkish lips drawn into a smile as Louis licks away sweat from the long stretch of neck Harry offers him.  The buttons of a pale blue shirt are undone at the top and Zayn can see all of the shiny tattoos beneath it.

The curve of Harry’s spine contrasts neatly with the stiff slide of Louis’ cock inside of him, their lips meeting on and off for laughter-filled kisses that don’t stick like their glistening skin.  Tan thighs look taut, quick fingers working up under Harry’s shirt to steady him as Louis slams a little rougher.  Damp fringe dares to fall across Louis’ brow and blue eyes shine like full moons.  There’s a squeak of Louis’ Vans over the dirty floor and Harry’s fingers grip at Louis’ hips as he rocks onto Louis’ prick, the sounds of his whines echoing off the white wash walls until it pulses louder than the music outside.

Zayn chokes on a breath, backing out with stumbling feet and his lungs burn like the first breath of air after almost drowning.  He stares resolutely at the door, the tinny sounds of Louis’ voice still cracking through the wood and Zayn’s throat runs dry before he pushes into the women’s bathroom and deadbolts the door.

It’s fifteen minutes of cold water against his face, two cigarettes, and that little trick Doniya taught him about counting backwards from fifty before he can breathe a little more soundly and scurry back into that oversized room of squirming bodies and too much liquor.  He sidles up to a corner of the bar that’s not too crowded, fishing out a few quid for another Jack and Coke and a bottled water – and he tries so damn hard not to roll his eyes at the bartender for the cost of the fucking water – before scanning the room.

Niall’s dancing on couches, Cher giggling at him with eyes so fucking fond now.  Jesy and Jade exchange come hither looks across the floor before laughing and swapping vodka and gin.  Andy leads a crowd into a loud discussion over Chelsea and West Brom that Zayn doesn’t quite understand and he swallows half of his Coke when he spots Louis across the bar, hanging off that pretty girl Eleanor with her doe eyes, wavy brown hair, and cheeks that sculpted like a model.

He chases heavy liquor with swallows of water while Louis nuzzles his nose into her neck, plays swift fingers along her back until reaching the curve of her arse, drowning her small giggles with his cheap words that Zayn can’t hear but his mouth is so obscene with _‘fuck you’_ and _‘your place’_ and _‘the things I can do with my mouth.’_ It stirs a touch of anger in Zayn – and he thinks of Harry immediately and chats about _‘more’_ because things like _friends with benefits_ never work out – before he rests his elbows hard on the bar and drowns in the sound of something new – _Dreams stay with you. Always on my mind. I’ve got a lust for lies_.

Harry nudges up to him out of nowhere in too tight acid wash jeans, that pale shirt with the buttons still undone, and skylark green eyes.  There’s a push to his dimple, almost forced, and his curls are still damp with sweat.

He shoves a warm shot of Jagger between Zayn’s fingers, thrumming with the music – _Seasons bring truth. When I found mine, it was summer time_ – with a laziness to his movements.  He salutes Zayn, a smile on cherry lips with still-flushed cheeks but something faintly fragmented in dilated green eyes.

“Zayn Malik, you are my favorite mystery,” he crows, lifting his smile in the way that is so _Harry Styles_ that Zayn has to bite back distrust to diffuse a smirk over his own lips.

He ignores the way _mystery_ and _unknown_ and _new guy_ still seem to trail him everywhere to down the shot with Harry, pounding the empty glasses against the bar and curling into each other with a laugh.

“You okay, mate?” Zayn asks with Harry’s breathy giggles against the shell of his ear.  He pulls back to examine Harry and there’s a dizziness to his eyes even when he looks over Zayn’s shoulder to where Zayn knows Louis is, still wrapped around Eleanor.

Harry snorts, nodding and holding up two fingers for the bartender in a universal sign that Zayn sighs at.

“Brilliant,” Harry chimes, breathing unsteadily and Zayn grips his hip to remind Harry to take deep inhales.  There’s something Zen about his expression that holds for a beat – _It’s the middle of the night and I’m so gone. And I’m thinking about how much I need you but you really want somebody else_ – and Zayn troubles himself with another shot to stop himself from asking Harry more questions.

There’s a bare wall near the dance floor that an old projector paints a cool blue and Zayn’s never noticed it before until he finds muscular arms, buzzed hair hidden under a snapback, and four thick arrows running up a forearm.  He creases his bottom lip with sharp teeth while looking at a lazy smile over shiny pink hips and thick fingers holding a drink with some curvy girl standing a little too close.  She’s got thick curls and a sweet caramel tone to her skin and glossy lips that were made for snogging or other things done on your knees.

The reach of scruff along a chin contrasts with the pleased smile on Liam’s lips, his fingers sliding up her arm like _comfort_ and _want_ until the stiff onslaught of envy grips Zayn’s spine.  She leans in, whispers something that leads a laugh off Liam’s lips and Liam is not a toy Zayn is forced to share with the other children.

Liam is not _Zayn’s_.

Rhythm fights against irritation when he pushes off the bar, nudges through the crowd of grabbing hands and sweaty bodies and she’s dripping calculated fingers over the collar of Liam’s shirt until Zayn can see the pale shade of pink across his cheeks, staining his neck.  It shreds the lining of his stomach and his fingers curl into fists before he’s right in front of them.

She looks up first, startled, inching closer until Liam blinks at Zayn with confusion – _Should be given the right to carry on_.  The blue outlines his thick eyebrows, the frown that shifts over his lips, the curve of muscles and tendons in his arms as he reaches out for Zayn.

“Hey – “

Zayn steps back before fingers brush his arm, everything lopsided from too many shots and beers.

Liam narrows his eyes and Zayn’s fall over the way her fingers clutch at the hem of Liam’s shirt, just a few inches above his –

“Hey babe,” Liam says to her, not Zayn, smiling sweetly.

It’s almost a tease, a taunt like he knows how Zayn feels.  Like he can feel it radiating off him in hot steam and invisible smoke.  His thumb strokes her hip, fingers nudging her back until she blinks hard at him, scowling at Zayn.

“Might need a few more drinks before you let someone blow you, yeah?” Zayn pushes out, a curl to his lips, a sneer in his voice.

Liam flinches but refuses to go stiff under colorful lights.  He snorts instead, sipping on something dark and strong, nodding.  “You offering?  Or do you just wanna watch?”

Zayn sucks back a sigh, lips curling.  It’s a challenge and the sizzle of blood rushing through him keeps him balanced.

“He _can’t_ watch,” the girl hisses, trying to move closer but Liam’s hand keeps her far enough that Zayn doesn’t feel the need to bark at her.

“C’mon Dani,” Liam coos, eyes on Zayn still, “wouldn’t be so bad.  Maybe you both could – “

She groans, smacking his hand away.  “Not into that.”

“He _is_ ,” Zayn snaps, composure fraying.  Liquid jealousy seeps through his bones, blurs almost everything except the darkness of Liam’s eyes, the frown moving over his lips.

Danielle scoffs, tossing curls behind her shoulder.  “Fuck off.”

Liam’s lips move to retaliate but Zayn holds up a hand, shaking his head stiffly.

“Think I will,” Zayn mutters, dragging his free fingers up the seam of his jeans to the sound of – _You’re not the one. Guess you’re not the one._

He springs back before Liam can stretch for him again and pushing through the sway of bodies feels like walking through quicksand.  He huffs on dead air and intoxication and the cool snap of the breeze outside drapes over his skin until his breathing evens out.  His tongue licks over dry lips and he considers sending Niall a text about walking home and not worrying but his hands are shaking too much.

There’s a halfway point when he’s around a building and moving toward an alley just for a smoke and an extension of clarity when fingers – _so familiar, so wanted_ – twine helplessly around his wrist and tug him backwards.  He’s never considered himself clumsy – not like Niall when he’s _drunk_ or like Harry when he’s _sober_ – but he stumbles and his mouth meets a collarbone and his chest collides with a thicker one and the choked inhale of air in his throat doesn’t pulse as loud as Liam’s heart.

He picks out the gold freckled amongst brown and the strong line of Liam’s brow and it’s agony to watch sweet lips form an apology that never comes.

“You don’t have to,” Zayn says quickly, straightening himself and pushing off of Liam.  He doesn’t step too far back and refuses to peel away when Liam inches in closer.  He swallows, the music still so loud around the corner – _Streets like a zoo. Through a city of lights, love at first sight_ – and whispers, “You’re not mine to do that to.”

Something flicks across Liam’s eyes before he wraps strong arms around Zayn’s slightly smaller frame and eases him into a brick wall.

“I don’t have to be,” Liam says against the hollow of his neck, his nose dragging like a puppy.  “But I _could_ be.  I swear, Zayn, I could be.”

Zayn breathes at that.  He actually lets oxygen fill his lungs and the sweet scent of Liam’s cologne and sweat and headiness until it all stirs beneath his senses.

He mouths at Liam’s hairline, knocking off that stupid snapback to trace the prickly hair beneath the light touches of his fingers and Liam’s lips dust fragile kisses underneath his jaw.  He doesn’t think he’s ever known velocity like this – the way his heart moves, his fingers over Liam’s neck, Liam’s hands across his stomach and hips – but he sinks into it before it burns away.

“You don’t have to label it,” Liam promises, catching Zayn’s bottom lip with his teeth before soothing the flesh with small licks, “but I’ll settle for whatever, babe.  I’ll settle and – “

Zayn stiffens, cupping Liam’s chin to lift it and strong eyes have melted into soft illusions.

“Don’t settle,” Zayn begs.

He curves in at an angle and watches those soft lashes flutter over Liam’s cheek before he presses their mouths together, waiting patiently for the first brush of Liam’s tongue before he turns it into something more.

There’s a distraction presented in the form of Liam’s moans against his mouth, the sharp drag of his erection against Zayn’s thigh before Zayn realizes stealth fingers are working beneath his shirt and tracing hot lines against his flesh.  He sculpts soft kisses to the pulse of Liam’s neck, licks at the birthmark until he can print star-shaped bruises around it.  The stretch of Liam’s shirt under his grip feels cottony and Liam bites gently over Arabic tattoos before he grins and finds his way to his knees.

Its foreign territory not yet explored with the faint glow of a white street light shining over Liam’s spit-slick lips.  It blisters all over Zayn’s skin while he curves a hand behind Liam’s skull and distracts himself with warm breath over his skin when Liam pushes his shirt up.  He kicks his feet apart, leaving room for Liam to scoot between with the rough ground beneath probably scarring up Liam’s knees.

Liam bites at the _‘don’t think I won’t…’_ before smiling up with hooded eyes.  There’s something nervous beneath those long lashes – _a virgin_ , Zayn thinks but not quite – before Liam’s licking, kissing softly at the dense heart tattooed on the other side.  Those lips, even softer when not pressed to Zayn’s own mouth, trace unguided lines that Zayn shivers with while unpracticed fingers undo the button of his jeans and lower the zip.

His eyes slip shut when Liam draws down the waistband of his pants with Zayn’s jeans, everything tangling around his thighs and Liam balances himself on his haunches with his breath tickling the head of Zayn’s cock.  There’s a beat of silence – except the music that promises _silent rays of blue; they slowly glide right down my spine_ – before Zayn blinks open his eyes to watch the smile spread over Liam’s lips, calloused fingers curling around the base of Zayn’s prick.

“You don’t have to,” Zayn says between heavy breaths, the tight fist Liam has around him choking the air from his throat.

Liam nods, thumbing the head until fat drops of precome leak out.

“I don’t,” Liam whispers, his voice a little rattled but still verging on confident, “but I want to.”

Zayn sucks in a breath, fingers scratching at the brick behind him until it rips at his skin.

“Go on then,” Zayn says against the protest in his lungs – _you’ll ruin him_ , he thinks – before offering a sharp thrust toward Liam’s mouth.  “Suck me off, babe.”

Liam snorts, his thumb caressing the underside of the head until Zayn moans and his head dips forward without the push of Zayn’s hand.

The head of his cock drags over swollen pink lips until Liam’s eyes flutter shut at the first taste, swallowing and scraping the air from Zayn’s chest.  Liam slurps around it like he’s trying to pull every drop of nectar from Zayn and Zayn slumps against the wall, head falling backward to watch the stars watch them.

His spine feels loose, thighs trembling, and Liam’s trying to stay balanced but his enthusiasm shows when he swallows Zayn all the way down.  He’s not an expert – he chokes a few times, salvia dribbling down his chin, and he’s not really sure what to do with his hands – but he makes up for it with long licks and the kind of heat that settles against your skin after walking through a cloud of snow.  He thumbs at Zayn’s hip for encouragement when Zayn gently thrusts forward and the thin tear that slips down Liam’s cheek when he swallows around the head has Zayn seeing a litany of morning stars behind his eyelids.

“Go on,” Zayn hisses when his hips stutter and Liam suckles for too long around the head.

He pulls off with a _pop_ and shiny lips coated in precome and his own saliva.  He grins, satisfied, his fingers curling around the shaft again to wank Zayn off while he barrels through deep breaths of night air.

“So thick,” Liam gasps, a few tentative licks around the head that have Zayn scrapping his dull nails over Liam’s scalp for lack of something to hold on to.

Liam’s loud with his next descent, incredulous and noisy and his cheeks hollow at the right time.  He slurps backward like a child on a lollipop, unintentional with his moans but decisively direct about the way he grins when Zayn can’t help but rock his hips toward Liam’s mouth.

“Fuck,” Zayn huffs out, his thumb stroking Liam’s cheek, shock bursting out of his lungs when Liam takes him back in so Zayn can feel the shape of his dick along that soft flesh.  “You’re awful.”

“I am?” Liam asks, sounding wounded when he pulls off.

Zayn pants out a laugh, shaking his head.  “Not like _that_ , mate.”

Liam pets the head and Zayn can see the way he’s thinking it over before he giggles.  “Shut it.”

“You want me to be quiet?”

Liam moans, something like a whimper deep in his chest.  “No.  Please, don’t.  Get louder babe.  Let them all hear.  Let them know how you feel when you’re in my throat and – “

Zayn groans, a careful hand forcing Liam’s head back down and he bows with Liam, jerking hips working his cock back and forth through pink lips.  That tongue plays like seasoned fingers along his prick and Zayn goes slack for a moment, letting Liam do all of the work until that fizzle in his stomach goes tight and threatens to suffocate him.

“Babe,” Zayn says like a warning but it comes out dressed in a moan.  The rest of the words, syllables, half-pieced letters die off in his throat and he spreads his legs a little further to brush the head along the roof of Liam’s mouth.

There’s a second when he thinks there’s no more air left to grasp for and the stars taunt him until he looks down and Liam’s jeans are spread open with his thumb skimming back the foreskin to show off a dripping pink head.  It surrenders all of the resistance Zayn’s been toying with until saliva dribbles down Liam’s chin, into his trained fingers and Zayn’s slickness stretches the sound of flesh on flesh into the night.

It’s a punch to his gut – his orgasm – and he’s watching Liam wank himself off rather than concentrating on the way he’s fucking into Liam’s mouth repeatedly, come sliding down Liam’s throat.  He’s gasping on air, Liam sliding back and out of the reach of Zayn’s hand to press his forehead to Zayn’s stomach before he comes between his own thick fingers.

They waste away in silent whimpers and half-gasped versions of each other’s name until Zayn drags Liam’s sticky fingers to his lips to lick them clean.  He sucks around the index finger, tongue curling around the taste and Liam lays faint kisses against the cool skin of his stomach until they’re helpless for each other again.

It’s later on, when they’re tucking each other back into their jeans with sticky-sweet smiles and Liam kisses himself off of Zayn’s lips, that he fondly goes with _realization_ over _declaration_.

“That was _sick_ , babe,” Zayn says against Liam’s lips to hold onto the _‘will you be my last’_ and Liam’s chuckle vibrates against his tongue.

“I can’t get over you,” Liam says with a sliding smile, their foreheads pressed together and fingers still searching out new avenues to find fresh flesh.

“You don’t have to,” Zayn promises and, when he’s in his bed later, he makes his own rules about defining this thing between them.

**

“We don’t have to, uh, actually do this,” Liam fumbles out while juggling a pizza box – chicken and vegetarian because, somehow, Liam learns little things about Zayn like not eating pig or that he prefers root beer over Coke or that soft spot just beneath his jaw that makes him giggle – and a borrowed copy of _Now You See Me_ and his backpack stuffed with dense textbooks.

He struggles with his key in the door, nudging a little too roughly with a wrinkled brow and a soft smile for Zayn over his shoulder.  He sighs, his foot budging open the door before turning to say, “We could go out.  Some mates from the team are down at River’s Pond having a few beers.  Or we could catch a film.”

Zayn points discreetly at the DVD still pinched between Liam’s forefinger and thumb, smirking, and Liam sighs again with embarrassment.

“We could maybe meet up with Niall for some teppanyaki,” Liam offers, a nervous wobble from foot to foot that draws up a chuckle from Zayn.  “We could ditch off to this nice little – “

Zayn pushes off the wall opposite of Liam, closing the small distance separating to rest hands on Liam’s stiff shoulders, squeezing tightly until the muscle beneath goes slack.  He chews out a small smile, fingers chasing the tension up Liam’s neck before resting on his cheek.

Liam leans into the touch, soft lashes fluttering over his cheeks and Zayn fights against the urge to kiss him roughly.

“S’alright if you don’t want me to see your room,” Zayn says, his voice scratchy but endearing.

“’s not that I don’t want you to,” Liam says and Zayn arches an eyebrow to say the things they’ve been avoiding.  Feathered blush sweeps over Liam’s cheeks, heating the flesh beneath Zayn’s fingers before he adds, “It’s a horrible mess.  And I’m sure it smells like old takeaway.  Plus it’s _small_.  Tiny, babe, I swear.”

Zayn snorts, nudges at Liam’s knuckles until he stumbles back a bit, and he’s biting at his lip when Liam offers him a small pout.

“I’m not here for your cleanliness, dude,” Zayn laughs, hands finding Liam’s hips to carefully turn him around and guide him into his University room, “But the pizza is getting cold and you promised me a chill night.”

“A chill night,” Liam repeats quietly, nodding while his knee works the door the rest of the way open.  “Without the bros, right?”

“Without the bros,” Zayn confirms with a small smile, resting his chin on Liam’s shoulder while his arms wrap around Liam’s middle, their feet shuffling over the threshold and into the room.

Zayn edges around Liam and doesn’t fight the way Liam draws him back against his chest when he kicks the door shut.  The room is quite nice – not that Zayn has much to reference it to since he’s, you know, never really been to University – with a desk along one wall, a comfortable-looking settee opposite it, and the kind of bed that looks soft but reasonable.  There’s a near empty bookcase above the desk that Zayn imagines filling with Brown, Meyer, some art books, a few collections by Twain and a thick guide to everything Keats.  There’s a few random shirts strewn off the back of the chair at the desk and the walls are a bare white that illuminates the room with a seasoned glow.

The floor is dressed in a worn carpet and there’s a few small _Toy Story_ figurines spaced out across the desk with open textbooks, highlighters, and a Batman mug that Zayn grins at.  The window above the bed looks like the kind that lights up the room with heavy shades of the sun in the morning while the closet along the wall next to the door is small, compact, and houses a massive collection of footie gear and hoodies.

“It’s shit, right?” Liam says against the shell of Zayn’s ear and Zayn’s eyes flutter shut to drown out the aroma of pizza for Liam’s musk, faded cologne that’s sharp like wintergreen, and hints of chocolate Liam ate nervously while waiting for Zayn outside of the hospital.

Zayn shakes his head, teeth pulling at his lip while he drags the edge of his sleeve over his fingers, down to the knuckles.

“I like it,” Zayn says instead of _‘I could live here’_ and leans further into Liam until his head rests on a broad shoulder.  “Quite fancy the minimalist vibe, babe.”

Liam’s thick fingers tickle through the thin, thin material of Zayn’s soft white Henley, fitting between his ribs like _home_ , and his stubble scratches against Zayn’s when their cheeks meet.  Zayn chokes on a snicker while Liam’s laugh dances along his skin and this kind of progression – where _warm_ and _peace_ center around this stupid boy in this crummy town – is unexpected, but welcomed.

He slides away from Liam with the pizza box in hand just to try and forget how fond he is of this fucking boy while Liam does his best to tidy up unnecessary pieces of the room like his stack of books by the bed or his even smaller collection of Batman comics in a neat tower off the edge of the desk.

“Your mum says that Noah is doing well and – “

“You talked to me _mum_?” Zayn asks, his voice strained and Liam’s cheeks light up with a sheepish grin.

“Is that a bad thing?”

_Yes_ , Zayn wants to say but he catches the glint of concern wafting through Liam’s eyes before he replies, “Not exactly.”

Liam shrugs, lips pressed into a small, sincere pout.  “I was just wondering about Noah is all.  Y’know it took him a while to recover from the anesthesia and he hadn’t really been eating – “

Zayn pulls in a breath, nodding and guilt strides over his chest.  “Its fine, Liam.”  He surveys the way Liam blinks at him and he’s spent a sleepless night already worrying about that little boy before Noah woke to an unearthly sunshine and a sudden craving for Karen and Liam.

“I’ve been checking on him.”

“I know,” Liam says with a grin and it’s so pliant that Zayn has to roll his eyes just to look away.  “She tells me you’ve been spending loads of off-time with him, just making sure he’s alright.”

Zayn nods, ducking his head and he waits until Liam stops grinning so widely at him to let things settle from there.

Liam brews them orange tea that’s spiced with cinnamon and Zayn swallows a protest when Liam’s a little too heavy-handed with the milk, promises of root beer floats later while Zayn queues up the film.  He watches Liam shrug out of his gray hoodie – the one with ‘ _SPORTS’_ dressed across the chest and it fits so snuggly that Zayn stops thinking for a minute – into a tank top and there’s so much skin for Zayn to glance over, tanned and strips of ink he hasn’t touched in too many hours with dark jeans hanging off the edge of his hips.

There’s a brief moment with blush stroking elegantly over Liam’s cheeks and their eyes meeting to glance over the bed, then the settee before Liam shrugs with a lopsided smile.

“Bed or the – “

Zayn grins, catches the nervous set in Liam’s shoulders and the way his skin is flushed from his neck down to his chest.  He jerks his head toward the settee, arms folded over his chest in defiance, before he says, “Here is fine.”

Liam nods, rubbing shyly at the nape of his neck before curling their fingers together and leading Zayn toward the settee.

Zayn’s senses are so acute and aware in the quiet dark of Liam’s room like this, thigh to thigh with fingers twined in the middle.  He doesn’t miss when Liam hooks his phone into the iPod deck, all the music soft and it’s a collision of James Morrison and Drake and hints of Aerosmith before the thud of Example.  They pass the mug of tea back and forth, each sip growing sweeter and sweeter, while the film bursts bright on the laptop balanced on Liam’s knees.  It’s a complete array of sleight-of-hand and mind-numbing illusions and _‘it’s her, Zayn.  It’s the French woman and she’s behind all of it, I’m telling you’_ in the hollow of Zayn’s ear with Liam’s voice pitched high and his spare fingers smeared with pizza grease that Zayn licks off between scenes.

Liam’s lit some knockoff scented candle in the corner that stuffs the room with the scent of jasmine and a rough flickering light while the sky outside is a dense flow of gray and sharp burgundy.  The lights have been clicked off and Zayn doesn’t mind the sharp tick of Liam’s teeth over his exposed collarbone or the way cautious fingers keep flicking open another button on his Henley.

His tongue slips over his lips repeatedly, licking away salty cheese and heady tea while he blindly traces the pattern of Liam’s veins up the inside of his forearm.  There’s a wake of a smile against his neck when Liam nuzzles his nose to Zayn’s skin and he casually – well, _clumsily_ because he’s not good at this and it looks a little comical like out of some teenage television series – folds an arm around Liam’s shoulders while faking a yawn.

“Pathetic,” Liam says against his pulse and Zayn’s nose wrinkles with a laugh.

“I’m trying,” Zayn says back, eyes still on the screen as a car chase speeds down a New York City bridge.

“It might be working,” Liam whispers, his breath moist against Zayn’s neck and Zayn tightens his fingers around Liam’s to control his urge to try a few other things.

They’re more than halfway through the film and they’re third replay of _Unorthodox Jukebox_ with the moon kicking thicker shadows off the walls and Zayn’s not sure if he’s gotten braver or Liam bolder, but careful fingers flick open the last button of his Henley and he’s casually sliding the laptop from Liam’s knees to the carpet by their feet.  The upper portion of his shirt is spread wide and soft, pink lips drag over the ink staining his chest with a sharp red mouth and gossamer-like wings.

Thick, warm fingers get caught in the hem of his shirt, sliding upward to skitter over his skin while he wraps long fingers around the nape of Liam’s neck, guiding his mouth upward to the stretch of skin Zayn offers him so willingly.  It’s unsaid – the things they haven’t done in the dark – but he’s tiptoeing on the edge that blurs reason with his free fingers inching Liam out of his tank top.  His spine arches in that pretty way that makes Zayn stop just to watch as he peels away offensive clothing and the grin that flickers past Liam’s lips – the unease of uncertainty and powder keg of shyness – lifts the flames a little wider in Zayn’s stomach.

He marks Liam’s neck with subtle bruises, kiss-stained pink petals that curl a moan from Liam’s lips minutes too late for Zayn to crave anything but the feel of these wide muscles beneath his fingers.  There’s clumsy movements where Liam undoes the button of his jeans, a flick of Zayn’s wrist that show a little more skill at things like this.  A soft coo lost underneath a hurricane of _‘yes yes yes’_ when Zayn presses their lips together for rough kisses until they’re swollen and cherry-red.

Zayn hitches his hips, slides out of his jeans while Liam breathes an unsteady _one-two_ roll of gasps.  He stitches his tongue to Liam’s birthmark while Liam pushes down his own jeans, pooled at his bare feet that keep padding along to the music – _You got your legs in the sky with the devil in your eyes. Let me hear you say you want it all_.

Pressure along the hollow of his collarbone comes from Liam’s thumb, spare fingers running lightly just to outline the thick microphone on the inside of Zayn’s forearm while Zayn’s dull nails scratch down Liam’s neck.  He abandons the litany of Liam’s harmonic whispers – _you’re so beautiful, where is this going, just touch me Zayn I’m yours_ – to rake sharp teeth under Liam’s jaw, his tongue bristled by the sharp points of Liam’s stubble.

“Is this,” Liam breathes, stuttering with his hands cupping the bones of Zayn’s hip, “alright?  I mean – “

Zayn smirks, sliding into Liam’s lap, bracketing Liam’s thighs when he straddles him.  He leans down, nodding his consent, to kiss at Liam’s parted lips.

The dip of a tongue against the seam of his mouth – _Look what you’re doing, look what you’ve done_ – and Zayn presses down to feel the heat of Liam’s stiffness along the back of a thigh.  He sucks on Liam’s tongue, fingers slip-sliding over short hairs at the back of his head with Liam’s fingers bearing fine bruises on his waist.

Liam is cautious about tugging at the waistband of Zayn’s pants, cheeks burned a delicious pink that Zayn grins and kisses at.  There’s a northern glide of hands for fingers to fit between the hollow spaces of his ribs, still a little uncertain, and Zayn lets him finger the playing card on the outside of his chest, a thumb sliding over _a pirate’s life for me_ until Liam tilts his head up and sucks a coin-shaped bruise to Zayn’s collar.

“Just stay right here,” Liam growls against his skin, shameless about his groan when Zayn rolls his hips and digs the thickness of Liam’s erection to the edge of his arse.

“Couldn’t make me leave,” Zayn laughs out, breathily.

Liam smiles along his shoulder, licking and biting and fingers drag for a long beat – _‘Cause what I got for you, I promise it’s a killer_ – before he grips the edge of Zayn’s pants and drags them down.  They work messily out of Zayn’s briefs, Liam tugging them to Zayn’s bare ankle before flicking them away.  Zayn pulses beneath his hands and drags his hips deliberately slow until _encore_ and _for your entertainment_ buzz off the tip of his tongue.

They chuckle into a few more kisses, high off of the sweat that rolls down the middle of Zayn’s spine and the rush of Liam’s lips until Liam’s out of his own pants and they’re naked on the settee.  Liam stares at him like he’s never _seen_ Zayn before – and maybe he hasn’t seen this side but it doesn’t feel foreign, so virginal like he imagined it would – and his hands do a delicate dance of _too fast, too slow, just right_ over the planes of Zayn’s chest and the throb of his thighs.

“Can we skip the foreplay,” Liam whispers into the shell of his ear with fingers buried in Zayn’s hair and a hand squeezing the inside of his thigh until Zayn’s cock smacks roughly against Liam’s abdomen, “because I really want to know what it’s like to be in you, babe.”

Zayn laughs, a fistful of oxygen suffocating half of it before nodding and Liam’s learned a little too much from watching that film – a quick flip of his hand to produce a small bottle of drug store lube like a magician’s trick.

Pink grazes Zayn’s cheeks like the edge of a newborn flame and Liam tips up a smile over a nipple, his tongue stroking out words – _You’ll be banging on my chest; bang, bang, gorilla_ – rather than thoughts.  He inches his knees apart, the material of this settee so soft that Zayn can’t feel the cold, hard press of steel beneath.  He arches his back, tips his bum a little higher and he’s breathing into the crook of Liam’s neck rather than watching Liam’s wide eyes when he offers himself up so freely for Liam.

Liam’s eyes are a hint of _brave_ , too much care and shyness blanketing it off and Zayn smiles into a quiet kiss like Liam’s still looking for permission.  He guides Liam’s lube-soaked fingers backwards, giggles at the coldness of it when Liam stutters over his thigh, creases down the center of his spread cheeks until Zayn is absolutely certain that this boy is still a virgin for this.

“Fuck,” Zayn groans against Liam’s haphazardly pink cheek, eyes squeezed tight as Liam circles the rim repeatedly.  “Just do it.”

Liam snickers, the sound wide and full, before nodding and their eyes meet for a second of _only if you want me to_ before Liam presses down and Zayn shakes from the sear of pressure.

It’s an addiction, the feel of Liam’s lips and the scent of his body wash and the pull of his muscles as he tries to balance Zayn like this.  Zayn keeps his eyes closed, teeth grinding his lip raw as Liam slides in and out, only to the first knuckle, for a while to loosen Zayn up.  Not that it’s been too long – well, it _has_ , for Zayn’s standards – and he thinks it’s rather sweet the way Liam keeps licking the sweat from his neck, kissing under his jaw until he can sneak all the way to the second knuckle, twisting just a little.

Zayn blurts out a moan, fingers shaky on Liam’s shoulder and patience escapes Liam when he inches in a second finger to match the first.  There’s a pulse of unhealthy stars behind Zayn’s eyes and a trembling moan on his lips just before Liam twists, coils his fingers deep until the tip of his middle finger is pressing right against – _oh_.

“So fucking pretty,” Liam whispers, filthy with a grin, drawing back to thrust in so brilliantly quick that Zayn never misses the retreat.  He laughs, low and endearing, against Zayn’s neck, teeth biting at free skin.

No, it’s _not_ free.  He thinks, under the gleam of a spring moon, it all belongs to Liam now.

It’s far from a _not yet_ and so much closer to an _in sickness and in health_ now.

“Don’t bother,” Zayn says against his temple when Liam searches the settee, the pair of jeans on the floor for a condom and the strike of ruddy flush that colors his skin is just an afterthought when Liam looks at him wide-eyed.  He kisses away the shock and bathes in the awe while Liam scissors thick fingers inside of him.

“But – “

Zayn shakes his head, chewing on an already swollen lip to push back onto Liam’s fingers, sawing a sharp noise out of his chest when Liam adds a third – right on his prostate with two fingers now – before adding, “S’okay, Liam, I promise.  Haven’t in so long and I’m clean and will you please just – “

Liam surges up for a kiss that lasts through too many twists and more lube, much more lube than needed but Zayn doesn’t complain.

He lets Liam paint his skin shiny with slickness and he’s dripping from his hole and the moon clips a sharp shape over Liam’s jaw when Zayn presses their foreheads together.  He feels stretched and the smile lifting one side of his mouth when Liam trembles while slicking his own cock wet pushes roughly on the lining of his heart.

There’s a dim rush of terror in Liam’s eyes when he tries to line himself up and it’s so clumsy like a sixteen year old in the back of his parents’ car that Zayn can’t help the laugh that escapes his lips.  He ignores the sting of Liam’s slap to his arse like _‘hey, don’t be mean’_ to steady a promising kiss to the corner of Liam’s mouth.

“Take your time,” Zayn says against pink lips and his long lashes nearly fade out the smooth glow of Liam’s face.  He lets Liam bite at his lip while he arches his spine just right and he presses downward onto the tip.

“I want to be good.”

Zayn smirks, nodding, rolling the rim over that dripping head until he can slide down onto it.  He lets it rest there, just on the inside of him, eyes fluttering shut for the pain and the crease of something satisfying.

“You will be, you idiot,” Zayn promises, letting sticky fingers grab his hips and guide him further down, “just be, um, careful.  It’s been a while and you know – “

“I’d never hurt you,” rushes off Liam’s lips so easily that it blindsides Zayn and he’s biting at his lip for the quick descent down the rest of the shaft.

Liam’s not a virgin.  Zayn can tell by the steady rock of needy hips and the way his fingers find the groove so perfectly but there’s still a suggestion of _amateur_ and _unpracticed_ that takes the bite off of the jealousy corkscrewing through Zayn’s heart.  He refuses to think about _her_ – or _his_ – name for the better part of adjusting to Liam’s thickness, the raw sense of need burning up the inside of his spine until Liam shakes beneath him.

He forfeits control to Liam with fingers fisted into his hair and the careful push of a kiss to Zayn’s lips.  It’s a little off balance at first because Liam’s too eager and Zayn’s a little too willing but the first couple of thrusts mark him in ways he’s unprepared for.  The pants against the edge of his lips, the slick-shine of Liam’s forehead in the dark with that damn candle lighting up the corners of Liam’s mouth rather than the gold in his eyes buries Zayn in the worst slide of unsteadiness he’s ever felt.  He grips Liam’s shoulders to find something like equilibrium before tipping his head back to gasp out a groan.

His thighs bracket Liam’s hips, keeping him close enough until Liam gives him a little nudge and spreads his thighs for more control.  Zayn refuses to admit he likes the way Liam’s fingers tug at his hair when he goes deep or the shallow thrusts that threaten to tip the head of his cock out of Zayn.  He hurries his breathing along to catch up with his heart and the way he grinds back on Liam is sinful in a nondescript way.

Liam nips at his collarbone, holding him down, rocking up until the tip strikes mercilessly against that sweet pulse of nerves.  He stutters a moan along with the music – _I got a fistful of your hair but you don’t look like you’re scared. You just smile and tell me, ‘Daddy it’s yours.’_ – and anchors the rhythm of everything nonsensical to the way Liam lifts his hips just to drag him right back down.

The settee rocks roughly against the wall and his cock slaps painfully against Liam’s stomach, speckling thick drops of precome against stiff muscles.  He gasps on a thrust, floats on a swirl of hips, and buries his face in Liam’s neck to keep the _‘harder, Liam, you can do so much more’_ from slipping past his lips.

He whines when Liam threatens to go too slow, treating every inch of Zayn like fine China until a smirk is pressed to the inside of his neck and teeth wreck his shoulder with hard marks as Liam slams into him.  He curls around Liam, holds on, lets his body sink into this.  Liam spreads his thighs just a little wider and he’s never known the definition of _flexible_ before this but he’s so willing to learn it in every language possible as long as Liam keeps pulsing against his prostate.

“You feel so fucking good,” Liam gasps, shades past that virginal state to become something filthy-sweet.  His fingers mold more bruises against Zayn’s hips – _Give it to me baby_ – and Zayn huffs out another groan for the way Liam shakes when he squeezes around him.

The wet noises of too much lube and the unwarranted stretch of Zayn pull something loud out of Liam and Zayn careens with it until their fingers can catch around each other and Liam’s free hand finds his cock in the dark.  He blisters with the sweat and the animalistic chants that keep beating past Liam’s lips.  His eyes blink open, adjusting to the shadows and the soft glow of candlelight and the pull of a smile on Liam’s lips undoes him so quickly.

“That’s it, love,” Liam says softly, an encouraging raise of his eyebrow and teeth bearing down on his bottom lip until Zayn parts his lips for a shallow gasp.  “Let me see you.  C’mon, Zayn.  Fucking come on me.”

And it’s just that simple.  Just the swell of something uncharacteristic about Liam’s eyes, the way they’re dark and full and carnal, and Zayn pinches his shoulder as he trembles out his orgasm.  He looks up rather than down, pulsing for too long with Liam stroking him through it.  His body feels drained but he keeps coming, lost on it all.

“Fuck,” Liam gasps and it barely reaches Zayn’s ears until he’s dragged all the way down and he feels so, so wet.  So _full_ and he’s dripping come and lube without giving into pretense and sanity.

The ambush of kisses laid over his temple, the cleft of his smile, the heartbeat in his neck distracts him to the way Liam’s arms coil around him.  Liam’s so gentle in the way he lifts Zayn, turns them without losing grip to lay Zayn down against the too cool surface of the settee with his body hovering over Zayn like protection.

“Amazing,” Liam whispers to his cheek, nosing up the side of his face and Zayn stares at the ceiling for too long.

He’s tethered to his pants, the quick lift and sudden fall of his chest.  He lets Liam push the fringe from his brow and turns his head just a little to kiss Liam.  Just to lick away the smile on Liam’s lips and bury himself in nirvana.

Because that’s what this is – a place that’s _inhuman_ and Zayn wonders if he’s even meant to be here.

**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zayn longs for home -- Bradford; not this small town that's nothing but University and football and a hospital his mum forces him to volunteer at. But there's something about this place -- or the boy with the buzz cut and soft eyes and Liam Payne is nothing like Bradford. Zayn hates that, slowly, he's kind of in love with that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Extended Summary:** And Niall is a all smiles, a geek who just wants to belong; Harry and Louis are a refined definition of 'friends with benefits,' and Zayn's mum wants nothing more than for Zayn to get his life together.
> 
>  **WARNING:** This fic is kind of sad. It touches on Autism and all of the effects it has on not only a child, but family too. I am awful with medical stuff (thanks Lynn for all the help!) and I've made quite a few changes to the British education/sports system. I know there's no such thing as a 'redshirt' player in Europe but I used it for the sake of the fic (and a few other things too). Oh, and the 'Block Party' and 'Breakfast Club' and tons of other things are all aspects of my life growing up in small towns.
> 
> This fic is very autobiographical for the most part and something I felt the need to write for a long, long time. I am terrified to let people read it but, I hope it helps someone.

**

This town is like a beacon that keeps calling him – _home_ is not the word, though he studies up on other synonyms to replace it with.  It’s still so small and plain and, at times, boring because it’s nothing like Bradford but it’s slowly becoming like everything he’s ever wanted.

He doesn’t seem to mind the way some of its people are gradually beginning to learn his name and relate him back to his mum and most of the parents don’t look at him like a stranger because he’s aided in their children’s survival at the hospital.  The streets are still a little too empty at night and the days feel longer than _forever_ but he’s taken to the shit coffee, lack of things to do, and the way everyone knows everyone else without blinking an eye.

It’s game day that this place comes alive with crowded shops, the constant bustle of people from street to street, loud chants and unpenetrated unity that spreads for meters and decades.  All of the residents refuse to step out of their quaint, freshly painted houses without wearing some form of the school’s colors.  It’s a universe of black and gold and children with their faces painted in celebration.

He smiles at some of them, the ones he recognizes, and distantly he wonders if Noah has ever really seen Liam play.  He imagines Noah with half of his face streaked black with a stich of _‘79’_ painted gold on his round cheek and the sounds of a roaring crowd would probably only be half of the pride of a squealing boy with tender gold curls and eyes wide for Liam and Liam only.

Zayn stops by that one coffee shop off the edge of campus that he and Niall love with the above-average coffee, those fresh oatmeal raisin biscuits he craves too often late at night, and that one chap who works behind the counter with the fake tan, crisp blue eyes, a body lean from yoga, and the hint of mint layering over his posh cologne.  The girl behind the till adds a healthy drip of caramel to his hazelnut coffee with a sweet smile and batting lashes like getting on her knees for him wouldn’t be too problematic.  He teases because he can, winking at her before stumbling through the nice crowd out of the shop to that wicked patio view that’s decorated in wicker chairs and round tables and the kind of ambiance reserved for television shows instead of small towns.

He catches the corner of his bottom lip with sharp teeth when his eyes meet a pair of blue ones like the center of a flame.  His coffee is too hot when he sips at it and Louis grins at him, mischievous and a little too Alice steps away from Wonderland for Zayn to handle.

“Are you quite finished pretending like you’re not going to burst into flames walking around in the daylight?” Louis says, a thicker shift of his smile that unsettles just enough in Zayn.

Zayn blinks at him, tongue still numb from the coffee before he mutters, “excuse me?”

Louis chuckles, dark and teasing.  “Fucking hell, Malik, get off it.  I swore to all of my mates that you were a vampire ‘cause I never see you when the sun is out or without your lips attached to poor Payno’s neck.”

There’s a quick lift of Zayn’s brow, fingers coiling tight around the cardboard cup that houses his coffee and the steam is heady enough to stop his upper lip from curling at Louis.

Louis rolls his eyes promptly, kicking out the chair at his table before waggling his eyebrows.

“Sit,” Louis half-demands, sipping slowly at his tea and looking all the more insistent when Zayn hesitates.  There’s a huff and a groan before he adds, “Fucking bullshit, come on now.  I’ll save all the biting for sweet old Li.”

Zayn knits his brow together, contemplative, before easing into the chair and resting his coffee on the table.

Louis looks pleased, the sun haloing around his head like he knew the definition of angelic.  There’s a glint to his blue eyes and a curve to his smile that Zayn has trouble trusting but he doesn’t _know_ Louis.  Not like he does Niall, not like he’s started to with Harry.

He thinks Louis is more like an open letter to conformity – a very proper _fuck you_ with a grin and a middle finger.  He’s a collision of punk rock and decades’ earlier style with bed hair and scrawled out tattoos and his footie jersey with unshaven scruff lining that curled mouth.

“So how’s life?” Louis asks conversationally and he’s incredibly casual about it all.

Zayn leans back into his chair, fighting against a smile.  “Brilliant.  Yours?”

Louis shrugs, taking a slow sip of tea before replying, “My classes this term are shit, I still haven’t decided on a course of teaching or law, teammates keep taking a piss at me about last game, and I haven’t fucked in two days.  All in all, bloody miserable.”

Zayn almost chokes on steaming coffee and Louis lifts his brow with little reverence for concern and a subtle twitch to his smile that Zayn recognizes immediately.

“You’re mad, bro,” Zayn says around a cough and his fingers search for a cigarette while Louis nods.

“Heard that before,” Louis hums, crossing his legs under the table.  “Hasn’t stopped me yet.”

Zayn lifts his brow with a slow sliding smile and they blink at each other for a moment before silence sets in so comfortably.  He hates admitting it but Louis reminds him of Danny.  He’s casual about nothing, dramatic about almost everything, and the kind of mate that makes you not want to give two fucks about the world because you know, deep down, it doesn’t give a shit about you anyway.

“How’s Harry?” Zayn asks out of nowhere after a long swallow of coffee and Louis’ eyebrow arches a little too high at the question, eyes narrowed.

Louis snorts.  “Perfectly unattainable, as always.”

Zayn’s mouth curves into something quizzical but he halts at the way Louis grins.  There’s something peaceful and radiant about the way Louis looks and Zayn’s certain he’s seen it before – on Harry’s face anytime Louis is brought up.  It’s this unspoken rule between them and Zayn’s slowly learning the meaning.

“Why do you,” Zayn pauses when Louis leans in, elbows balanced on the table with a slight shine of interest and alarm in his eyes, “two keep at it if it’s not really going anywhere?”

“For the sex,” Louis teases, decisively low but the weight of the words on his tongue sizzle louder than the passing traffic on the street nearby.

Zayn rolls his eyes, leaning back, reaching for his coffee.  “That’s it?”

Louis loses half his smile and it’s replaced by something so sincere that it seems rare pressed against Louis’ face.  It’s haunting but not unwanted and Zayn thinks, somewhere, he could fit Louis into all the slivers of _something missing_ that keeps him walking on egg shells.

“I hate Katy Perry,” Louis sighs, drumming his fingers along the table to the sound of John Mayer or something absurdly acoustic floating from the coffee shop, “but I love her when he sings it.”

Zayn tries not to look confused, draining half of his coffee in one go while Louis looks off into the streets rather than Zayn’s careful eyes.  He’s biting restlessly at his lip and those fingers chase another beat until Zayn clears his throat.

Eyelashes flutter so helplessly against Louis’ cheeks before he adds, “I never understood that.  The things I hate, I want him around to make me like.  The way he sings so fucking loudly when he makes me fajitas after midnight.  Or the way he doesn’t know dick about football but comes to every game.  He likes American sports and, Christ, the fucker wears _beanies_ and _scarves_ like some hipster.”

Zayn hums, hiding a small smile behind his knuckles and, yeah, he gets that.  He honestly does.

“But then why don’t you – “

“Want more?” Louis offers a little too quickly, lowering his eyes.  Zayn nods even though Louis isn’t looking and there’s a shiver of quiet that floats between them.

“I do,” Louis admits, low and hidden.  His lips twitch and he looks incredibly fond for a moment like the thought crosses his mind too often to be just a coincidence.  “I mean, most of the time I do.  He fucking rattles me, man.  That cheeky bastard does it every single fucking time.”

Zayn laughs into his knuckles, ignoring the roar of Louis’ eyes and he lets the hefty weight of some imitation foreign coffee wait on the ledge of his tongue.

“But you flirt,” Zayn notes, curving an eyebrow at Louis.  It’s a dare and he’s waiting for Louis to chicken out, to lie.

He doesn’t.

“Of course.  Why the fuck not?  He’s not my boyfriend,” Louis grins out, resting his chin on his knuckles with a shameless grin.  “Plus it makes Haz so fucking jealous.  It’s great for the sex later on.”

Zayn winces, making a face and Louis’ laugh rings over the buzz of old Madonna tunes and Tori Amos.

Louis clears his throat, finishing off his tea while Zayn sips at lukewarm coffee before he adds, “I met his sister once.  Sweet girl.  Gemma Styles.  She’s so _accomplished_ and I want that for him.  I can’t afford to be his reason for amounting to nothing.”

There’s something awful and tender and somber to Louis’ voice, the leftover piece of a story untold that Zayn feels shaped against his skin.  He nudges Louis’ foot beneath the table, half a grin waiting on Louis when he lifts piercing blue eyes.

“I’m just a distraction, Zayn,” Louis admits, his eyes a little glassy and his chest too wide from holding in a breath.  “I want him to finish school.  See the world.  Get the fuck out while the getting is good, you know?”

Zayn nods, slow and stiff until Louis resigns with unsteady eyes and a soft tilt to his lips.

“But you could – “

Louis waves him off before he can finish with a breathy laugh like it’s necessary and they both know it’s not.  He cautiously traces the ink just beneath his collarbone – _‘it is what it is’_ – as if to say the words that are too dense for his tongue to carry past his lips.

They laugh through another order of tea and coffee and avoid talking about Harry because Louis looks a little cagey and Zayn’s not feeling reflective at the moment.  They give each other shit about their ink and the meaningless ones – “Because being a geek constitutes comic book-like art on your fucking forearm, mate?” – while trading stories about their best pranks.  Zayn feels at ease, slouching in his chair while Louis looks on the edge of something earnest and pleasant, smacking at Zayn’s hand when he refuses to add sugar to his coffee for _‘flavor, Malik, it’s a must.’_

Louis looks up with half-lidded eyes and a bunched up grin.  “I like you Malik,” he says under the guise of an equally bright laugh that shifts a smirk over Zayn’s lips.  He points at Zayn before tacking on, “I didn’t at first, okay?  You were shit and I refuse to believe anyone could be that insufferable wearing _leather_ in the fucking _spring_ , you nob.”

Zayn snorts, flipping him off while chasing his laugh with strong coffee.

There’s something painfully serious against his face with a tight jaw when he adds, “Liam doesn’t talk to people much about his family, especially not his nephew.  Not to Haz or any of the guys on the team.”

A warm feeling peels around the cold snap of the unforeseen and Zayn swallows more coffee to keep it all at bay.

“Is it because of his Autism?” Zayn wonders.

Louis lips pucker and he shakes his head.  “He’s not ashamed of him, you know.  Not one bit.”

“I didn’t say he – “

“He’s _protective_ ,” Louis interjects with carefully narrowed eyes that are further and further from wintry, just as fiercely defensive of Liam as he is of his nephew.  He leans in, his voice slow and low when he says, “I thought maybe he let you in at first because he felt he _had_ to.  You know, you watching out for Noah and the hospital and him being away.”

Zayn eyes Louis with contempt, trying to school the slight disdain that hides his own fears.

Louis smiles, nothing close to sweet but still friendly.  “I think it’s a bit different now.  With the way that little shit looks at you like you’re the fucking world and all.”

The heat of blush overwhelms Zayn and he can’t duck his head quick enough before Louis’ laughing.  He kicks out at Louis, knocking the table a little sideways until splashes of tea wet the surface and Louis sputters out something ridiculous.  He tries to pretend that the way Louis smiles at him like he _knows_ doesn’t trouble him or make him want to watch Liam a little closer for those looks, the subtle frames of his structure that give away his fond.

He knows he’ll study Liam later on for the smooth sweep of his lips or the way his fingers work against his skin in silent communication like Zayn is that to him – _the fucking world_.

“Let’s get them tonight Tommo!” a man cheers from across the broken yellow lines of the road.

“Ace penalty kick last game Lou,” another calls and there’s a few chanting children behind him as he marches past the coffee shop.

“My little girl wants to marry you,” a woman with graying hair and a wrinkled smile says sweetly as she passes and Louis waves at all of them with this put on smile and a glittery madness to oceanic eyes.

He turns to Zayn with a flat smile and fingers that drag through his fringe just to keep it out of his eyes.  There’s still soft indentations to his smile but it’s weak and Zayn reaches across the table to outline a heart and a diamond and, on the inside, a spade.

“Sometimes, I really get it.  Man, I fucking get it,” Louis laughs out but the sound is strange and harsh.  “It’s all I’ll ever be.  A town hero.  I’ll be their football god and, twenty years from now when my kids are _them_ , I’ll be just the hometown glory who could’ve been.”

There’s a slide of wanton somberness that sticks to Louis’ throat and Zayn drags the tips of his fingers to the pulse of Louis’ wrist until it slows and goes normal again.

Louis looks up through feathery lashes with a smirk, sighing.  “But Liam?  He’s much more.  He’s not the kind of lad meant to live and die in this hole.  He’ll be something.”

Zayn nods and _sympathy_ feels like the wrong word but it’s all he can feel for Louis.

It’s all he can cling to when Louis adds, softer now, “His heart is too big not to.”

**

It’s a Tuesday morning and too shy of a full sunrise when Karen checks Noah back into the hospital.  Zayn’s halfway through a coffee and a bagel and a steady conversation with Leigh-Anne when he spies recognizable golden curls and Karen’s a bit panicked at the way Noah’s wheezing and his fever and it’s just a cold, she’s certain but maybe it’s not.  Tricia is so patient with them until Noah’s wrestled into a hospital gown and a familiar bed.

Karen falls asleep in the lobby next to a cold cup of coffee Mary shoved into her hands after the first hour and she’s curled in one of those meant to be fluffy chairs that’s really uncomfortable when Zayn drapes an afghan around her shoulders.  And he’s not worrying over her while Noah goes in for X-rays and the first prick of that IV is always the worst to watch but he does anyway because Noah looks at him wide-eyed with pale lips and dark circles around his eyes.

Zayn sits with him while Karen sleeps and Tricia flips through charts and consults with her colleagues.  _‘It’s nothing’_ she promises but he knows that means it’ll be _something_ by the evening and he distracts Noah with a new collection of trains, that worn DVD of Winnie the Pooh that’s on a constant loop in his head even when Noah’s not around.

He’s half into his lazy attempt to sketch out the symbol from _the Dark Knight Rises_ when Liam jogs into the room, the sun sitting high in the sky and the tendrils of light breaking through the window lifting a pretty glow over Liam’s skin.  He looks a little unsure but the burn of his smile pulls at Zayn’s lips until he can’t help himself.

“Leeyum,” Noah says weakly, reaching out with wiry arms and Liam’s grin bursts like dying stars.

Zayn clears his throat, reminds himself that his last cigarette was nearly five hours ago and he won’t need another one until this boy with his brown eyes and weighty smile leaves his presence.

Liam’s a little shy about the way he runs his hand over his hair – it’s getting a little longer up top like Liam’s trying something new and Zayn’s been dying to stretch his fingers through it – and he’s sheepish when he moves closer to the bed, _Noah’s_ side, but looking like he wants to cross over to the edge of Zayn’s.

He pulls at the collar of his Green Lantern shirt – the one he wears because of _Zayn_ and he only knows that because Liam admitted it after a game and a slow fuck on his bed – before running sweaty palms over his joggers.  Pink lips pull wide over soft cheeks and Zayn’s never felt as desired as he does when Liam looks at him.

“I skipped classes to come see him,” Liam confesses, his voice still creased with labored breaths like he’d run from campus all the way here.  He drags the toe of his trainer over the floor, the squeak a shade quieter than the sound of Zayn’s heart before he adds, “And maybe you too.”

Zayn hiccups up on a laugh and feels completely foolish because _he’s so gone_.  He’s fucking head over proverbial heels with a glass of wine and a _‘will you take thee’_ pressed to his chest.  He lowers his chin astutely to hide the blush, pressing the tip of his pencil to the pad with a little more demand than he means.

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Noah huffs out impatiently and Liam’s eyes crinkle with a wide grin as he shuffles closer.

There’s stretched arms waiting on him and Liam falls to the bed so easily, tugging Noah up into a hug that lays curls on his shoulders without pulling the line from his IV too far.  They fold around each other like fractured glass and Zayn leans against the plastic rail to take them in, to spy the way Liam beams.

“Kiss,” Noah coos and the sound of Liam’s giggle threatens to haunt Zayn far into the night.

Liam puckers his lips, Noah snickers wildly, and they exchange a wet kiss that leaves Liam’s lips shiny and Noah’s eyes creased up into small slits of brown.

It feels like an intrusion, something shifting wildly down his spine and he considers offering up privacy until Liam turns his head just slightly and those round brown eyes hold him still.  The wave of Liam’s smile cascades along his skin, in his blood, and he’s curling up his own grin because he’s so lost on Liam.

He stays quiet, reaching up to detangle a few of Noah’s curls and to catch that strip of sunlight that rests so gently across Liam’s cheekbone, highlighting the arch of his smile over full pink lips.  It stains his skin Windsor and sketches his eyes a pretty mahogany and Zayn thinks, without a hitch in his breath, that he’s tipping into something unchangeable and a lot like –

He refuses to say it aloud but four letters beat on his tongue like pop rocks and he’s never been so scared of that word before.

Zayn seeks a diversion and finds it in Noah’s large brown eyes only to be misled by the word that sings off his lips.

“Kiss.”

Zayn stares at him for seconds too lengthy, pressing out a kind smile until he catches the way Noah keeps trading glances from Liam to him and his next breath is shredded from his lungs because – _oh_.

He blinks at Liam and the pull of his Captain America t-shirt, the stretch of four thick chevrons, the scrape of stubble over his jaw, and that birthmark that needs a pretty burgundy bruise to match on the other side of his neck unsteadies the rhythm of Zayn’s heart.  His fingers curl and release, a tongue soothing the ache from teeth gnawing at his lip before he really starts to breathe again.

Liam ducks his head a little but the tug on his lips is so apparent that Zayn’s hesitation burns off against the adrenaline.  Thick fingers find his hair over the divide – that small space with Noah in the middle, looking so awed and wondrous – and curl around his skull to draw him in.

“You wouldn’t deny a child, would you?” Liam teases, every bit the cheeky bastard that Zayn expects Harry to be.

There’s a pulse of coral bruising Liam’s cheeks and Zayn sketches his fingers over the skin for the heat that resides beneath.  He counts out his breaths when Liam closes the gap and he’s so fucking enamored with this stupid boy with eyes like horizons over the desert and lips a lethal tint of amaranth.

“Only ‘cause it’s your nephew,” Zayn half jokes, smirking.

Liam’s fingers thread through his hair and there’s something so serious about the fold of his brow, the quirk of his lips, the way his eyes study Zayn as their noses brush.  It’s not hollow – the look Liam gives him – but more like an unspoken plea for sanity and for words to mean more than just a pause in breathing.

“I want to take you out,” Liam says with their lips too close and Zayn rocking forward because he wants _more_.  “A proper date, if that’s alright?”

Zayn doesn’t answer and hides a response with a moan when Liam fastens their lips together.  He lets it move slow, deliberate with the kind of ease he imagines you feel after a _first love_ or _I’ve always loved you how could you not see it_.  He lets Liam tighten his fingers in thick hair and Zayn forgets Noah for a moment to slide his tongue against the seam of Liam’s mouth until Liam knows he’ll cancel dinner plans with his parents and spend an hour looking for something to wear just to look half as good as he knows Liam will.

“Tonight, maybe?  I know a place that serves great food and drinks and I don’t have class early in the morning so – “

Zayn kisses him again – for the sugary taste of the muffin Liam probably ate on the jog here, the tart taste of leftover orange juice just behind his tongue – and laughs into Liam’s mouth when Noah giggles and Liam’s fingers catch on the collar of Zayn’s scrubs.  He rubs an idle thumb under Liam’s bottom lip and when he pulls back, he stays close enough for their foreheads to press together.

“Shut it,” Zayn says with a rush of breath.  He blinks long lashes at the way Liam grins goofily before adding, “Of course, you idiot.  You’re so fucking Romeo and dramatics are Lou’s thing, aren’t they?”

Liam’s face glows from the sun and his smile before he strokes lazy fingers over Zayn’s neck, trying to blindly outline the shape of feathers below the knob on his spine.

“Will you?”

Zayn doesn’t answer again – at least, not with words.  He works a soft kiss to Liam’s slow swelling lips and in a few months, this will be tragic.

He settles for living in the _right now_ and the flow of Liam’s lips over his.

**

It’s not he imagined a first date being – and it’s not a _first_ because Zayn counts every time after a game, behind the stadium with furnace hot kisses or Liam’s messy room or infrequent meetings in the hospital under the cover of shadows and a half-asleep Noah next to them – but there’s a small hint of relief when Liam suggests Harry and Louis come along, Niall and Cher too.  It’s makes things a little less _formal_ and that’s a word he’s never been attached to with this plethora of tattoos and heavy boots and ripped jeans but it doesn’t stop him from plowing through a cigarette while waiting for Niall to pick him up in that shitty car or the way he kept beating on the dashboard to Artic Monkeys on the drive there.

Liam’s takes them to an authentic Japanese restaurant near the edge of town where they are sat on the floor with their shoes tucked by the door.  Liam’s clumsy with his chopsticks – not nearly as beautiful or fluid-like as he is on the pitch with a football and acres of free space – and Zayn’s never felt as _cultured_ as he does when he’s with Liam, leaning into to whisper to him the beautiful aspects of Asian influence and timeless rituals and customs.  It stutters a wild smile to Liam’s lips and Zayn bites back the need to kiss him stupid when Harry eyes them across the table with his own imprinted grin like _‘I know all of your secrets’_ is on the tip of his tongue.

They order teriyaki dishes and yakitori and bowls of rice with miso soup and pass small platters around to pile everything on.  Louis sips green tea with free fingers buried in Harry’s curls, rolling his eyes at the affectionate smile Harry keeps offering him in return while Niall discreetly tangles his fingers with Cher’s over handfuls of spicy beef.

“Quite insane of you to invite your mates out with you on a date, Payno,” Louis teases and he’s every inch of smug when Liam blushes and hides in the crook of Zayn’s neck.  Louis gives a soft tug to a few of Harry’s curls and ignores the happy groan from Harry’s lips to add, “I mean, it is a bit like a triple date.  We are every bit of some stupid, cheesy show on the telly.”

Niall laughs loud and so _Niall_ while Cher giggles into her spare fingers.  Zayn noses Liam’s temple for a second until the blush fades off and there’s a tender tug to his smile.  He sighs, pleased before catching the way Harry’s cheeks are burnt a rose petal pink that drags out the glow of green eyes.

“Complete arse,” Niall teases, forgoing chopsticks for messy fingers to eat his rice.

Cher waggles her eyebrows while sipping slowly at her Hojicha.

Louis shrugs, unattached to anything before nudging Harry with an elbow.  “Almost like asking you to be my Valentine.”

“You never would,” Harry teases and they smile at each other for too long for Zayn to believe they still live in _casual_ and _detached_.

He sips at Liam’s Coke rather than pointing this out and Liam pinches at his thigh until he turns to Liam’s lips catching his own for something oddly chaste but definitely _Liam_.

Louis orders them Japanese beer while Harry demands sake and there’s nothing affronted about his charm with the staff or the way he manages to fill the chokos without spilling a drop.  They salute and laugh at Harry’s long, drawn out toast about mates and friendship and fucking _destiny_ before Louis cuts him off with a grin.

“And to this lovely town of ours,” Louis adds, holding his small cup high.  “It gave us Zayn and a winning team and bloody brilliant sex.  Cheers, mates.”

Niall beats on the table, Liam groaning and Zayn’s the one who buries his face against Liam’s neck this time but more for the scent – something like oranges and mountain air and sharp cologne – and that sudden need to lose himself in Liam’s skin.

Harry convinces them to do sake bombs because _‘it’s about tradition and culture, you twats’_ and no one argues because the warm sake has them floating and grinning like idiots.  Niall spills half of his and Louis’s Japanese is horrible but Cher beats Harry through the first two glassfuls of beer until she tips back and giggles against Niall’s shoulder.  Liam’s a pro in ways that has Zayn sticky with arousal and they share the last of Zayn’s beer just because.

“You two are ridiculous,” Louis mocks with the kind of smile that reminds Zayn of Ant and his first real crush.

“Jealous?” Liam teases with fingers rubbing over Zayn’s scalp and the flex of his neck.

Zayn smirks, his nose and lips burned raw by Liam’s stubble.  He counts the flutter of Liam’s eyelashes to twenty before the flush of Liam’s cheeks subsides.

“Hardly,” Louis groans but he’s leaning into Harry a little too quickly, unconsciously mimicking them in a far less natural way.

“What for,” Harry barks, dizzy on alcohol and splendor, “He’s the captain of the division’s best football team, a fucking brilliant student, a fucking saint on Sundays, and a world class fuck.”

Cher gasps while Niall makes a pinched face and Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever seen that shade of red gracing Louis’ cheeks before.

But Louis is so fond of Harry and there isn’t a person around who could tell Zayn that Louis Tomlinson was anything less than astounded by Harry.

Zayn takes to feeding Liam chicken with his chopsticks – and intimately with his fingers until the raw feeling coursing down his spine from Liam’s tongue licking at them drives him mad – with a supple grin.  He laughs at the way Liam misses some of the food, staining his nicely pressed Oxford and he’s dopey in ways Zayn’s never found attractive.

Now until _here_ ; this town, this existence.

“You’re shit at this,” Zayn whispers with a snicker, fingers carefully dragging over Liam’s mouth to wipe away excess sauce and sticky teriyaki.  He lets Liam’s lips catch on his thumbnail and the press of Liam’s teeth against his skin wakes a fire in his chest until he says, “And I don’t mind at all.”

They settle into random discussions from every corner of the square table with more sake and bigger portion platters passed around.  Zayn steals all of Liam’s vegetables while Cher rests a head on Niall’s shoulder and Louis’ nearly in Harry’s lap now like customs and _manners_ escape them both.  Cher hums something sweet and oddly familiar from the car ride here and it sticks to Zayn’s thoughts while Liam’s thumb finds his pulse in the hollow just beneath his jaw.

Louis gives Harry a playful shove in the halfway point of a smile and a laugh, grinning stupidly like – well, a lot like he’s in _love_.

“You’re awful Styles,” Louis sighs, still holding onto that grin.  “Fucking obsessed with _the Big Bang Theory_ and – “

Niall gasps, loud and wet until Zayn looks up from his slow study of Liam’s eyebrows and the curve of his smile.

“You are not,” Niall hisses with a wrapped around grin.  “Yo, bro, Sheldon is fucking _ace_.”

Harry grins, proud.  He elbows Louis before saying, “See, Lou.  ‘m not the only who gets the brilliance.”

Louis rolls his eyes instantly.  “Are you quite finished?”

“And Penny’s incredibly hot,” Niall adds, easing an arm around Cher’s shoulders so nonchalantly that she can’t help but giggle into her hand.

Louis groans.  “Get the fuck out.  This mildly gorgeous wanker is obsessed with a new television program every six months.  Last time it was _Six Feet Under_ and before that it was _Shameless_ and must I remember that marathon of the new _Torchwood_ series I suffered – “

“You loved every bit of it and Jack Harkness too,” Harry scolds with a wrinkled brow and pouty pink lips.

Louis snorts and shrugs, nudging Harry’s ankle with his own.  “I loved _roleplaying_ as him.  There’s a difference, love.”

Niall barks out another laugh and Harry bites playfully at Louis’ shoulder through his thick jumper until Louis begs off the assault for secret hand holding and the brush of his nose along the quiet curve of Harry’s jaw.

Zayn watches them intently – _Maybe if you let me be your lover. Maybe if you tried then I wouldn’t bother_ – with a smirk.  They fawn over each other openly for a moment with sake soaking through their senses.  Harry’s fingers tickle up Louis’ neck and Louis presses a silly kiss to Harry’s nose, still too frightened to ask for more though Zayn can read it in those midnight blue eyes.  It hangs over him and Harry’s bolder, making the first move before their lips meet somewhere closer to Louis’ side of their hollowed space.

Lips caress the shell of his ear and he shivers seconds before Liam says, “I never really had someone to introduce to me mates before.”

Zayn turns a little, his cheeks, neck, the top of his chest smudged pink and Liam’s got large eyes and the kind of smile Zayn won’t ever forget.  He steadies a hand to the inside of Liam’s thigh, letting the muscles flutter beneath his palm before dragging soft lips to the shape of Liam’s collar after he unfastens the first few buttons.

He concedes with the rhythm of his heart with Liam’s lips against his hairline and he’s never wanted to introduce anyone to Danny and Ant either.  Not that lilac haired bird Perrie with the beautiful blue eyes and put-on glam rock look who he dated for a few weeks too long.  Or Isaac, who was New Age, Zen, herbal tea, and brilliant blowjobs.  And he doesn’t think there’s an _after_ Liam – _Telling me that basically, you’re not looking after me. Everything was true to me, never words where you could see_ – when fingers map out the stereo and _mine_ over Zayn’s skin.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Liam says, even lower and there’s a hint of sadness that’s betrayed by Liam’s lowered eyes.

It aches a little too heavy before Zayn scoots closer with thighs pressed together and his free hand tickled by the short hairs on the side of Liam’s head.  He grips the nape of Liam’s neck, studying his face and trying to keep up with the race of his heart.

“Hey,” he says a little too quietly but Liam hears him over the roar of Niall’s laugh and the slur of Louis’ voice and the wet sound of two people snogging – and he can’t tell _who_ – in the background.

He waits until Liam’s eyes lift and his heart swells.  They trade little examining looks – _Could have been my everything, now everything is embarrassing_ – before Zayn presses forward to kiss Liam’s lips raw.

He lingers in it, even when Liam whines against his mouth and Harry swears to call their mums because he realizes _something’s missing_ and Liam, daft and too big of a heart, just might be it.

It’s the first time Zayn hasn’t missed Ant or Danny or the flare of the city lights at night; not for a second.

**

“Why am I letting you do this again?”

Zayn can’t help the way he smiles like electricity is crackling through his blood.  There’s a push of something pink against Liam’s cheeks but it’s hidden and dull underneath a thin layer of shaving cream that Zayn lathered on seconds after Liam escaped the soft heat of the shower.

“Because you’re shit at doing it yourself,” Zayn says and Liam’s got a handful of arse and deft fingers that pinch at taut skin as Zayn snickers.

He repositions himself from where he’s sat in Liam’s lap in front of the mirror, watching himself carefully drag a razor across Liam’s cheek with the smooth contours of the muscles in Liam’s back reflecting in his vision.  The heady scent of the soap Liam uses and still traces of the musk from the blowjob he gave Liam – a slippery, slow one that had Liam’s spine arching and Zayn’s throat a bit raw – fills his senses and he’s a little distracted by eyes shaded a dense almond and the play of a crude smile over swollen pink lips.

“You always mess up the edges,” Zayn explains in a soft, soft voice that sets a tremble to the muscles in Liam’s arms.  He rotates his forearms and supports Zayn with a palm to the small of his back and fingers finding the quiet grooves of the dimples there.

“I do not.”

Zayn rolls his eyes at the pout on Liam’s lips, fingers coming back sticky with cream as he adjusts Liam’s jaw and leans him into the pale morning sunlight.

Liam’s University room reeks of day-old Italian from the night before, watching comedies with Niall snuggled to Liam’s side and Andy playing Ruzzle on his phone while sat on the floor.  Zayn can still remember the way Liam kicked them out when Zayn snuck a hand down the front of Liam’s joggers to run over coarse hair and outline the silky shape of Liam’s cock with his pinky and ring fingers.  He pretends not to remember the way his lips trembled and the whimpers Liam drew out of him while shoving his cock gently into Zayn over and over until his weight left an almost permanent dip in Liam’s mattress – and the pillow he used to silence half of his moans still rests in the corner next to his balled up socks.

“Are you still thinking of getting something, well, what’d you call it?  _Monumental_ to add to your collection,” Liam wonders with stray fingers running the inside of Zayn’s forearm, up to the empty space on his triceps.

Zayn’s mouth curls into a bright smirk and he nods, biting at his bottom lip with strict concentration.

“Maybe a space monkey,” he says lowly and thinks, _maybe a seventy-nine for you_ , but he bats it away because it’s the kind of thing people in trashy romance novels do.

He doesn’t live on that edge of romanticism and obsolete behaviors.

“How appropriate,” Liam says dryly but Zayn spots the kick of his smile before it fully forms.

“We cannot all live in poetry like you, dude,” Zayn teases, dragging the razor even slower on the higher bits of Liam’s cheek.

“Something for my nephew,” Liam says, hands on Zayn’s bare hips now to balance him.  The thick fluff of a cotton towel that covers Liam slips a little and Zayn tries not to stare down at the profuse trail of hair that runs from the lip of Liam’s navel to something darker below.

Zayn raises a brow, lifting Liam’s chin a little higher.

“My next tattoo,” Liam explains, blinking at the ceiling with a long sweep of lashes that Zayn can remember beating against his cheek while they slept curled around each other.  “I want to get something for Noah.”

Zayn nods, grinning.  _Appropriate_ and _poetic_ fit so sturdily together when accompanied by a _Liam Payne_.

He uses a warm, damp cloth to pat away excess shaving cream from Liam’s left cheek before starting in on the right.  His fingers hold Liam’s chin, loving the feel of the still-there brittle hairs from unshaven skin against his own.

“It must be tough being as beautiful as you are,” Liam says in a singsong voice with a soft smile that tips brilliantly under the sunlight.

Zayn punches his arm just because, trying to stifle his grin but it’s impossible and it has Liam careening into the touch of his fingers and the slow scrape of the razor.

“How is he,” Zayn inquires with half of that smile, his thumb smoothing over now soft skin on Liam’s left cheek.  “Noah, I mean.”

Liam hums, eyes fluttering shut and those lashes beat against the top of his cheeks like release.

“Better,” he says, tilting his chin some to give Zayn a better angle.  Fingers shift fondly down each knob in Zayn’s spine, a thumb stroking the hollow of his side before he adds, “Mum says he’s sleeping a bit better.  He’s eating again and, actually, she says he’s quite fond of that Tigger stuffed animal you bought him.”

There’s a tease in Liam’s touch that is coupled with a wide grin while blush beats against Zayn’s cheek.  Zayn watches the tension of his jaw rather than the glint of those brown eyes and focuses on anything but the way he wants to bury himself in Liam’s neck and scatter dark marks to his skin to contrast with the clean skin.

He leans in for the scent of Liam and the way Liam steadies him with calloused fingers, strong hands, a careful grip.  He strokes the end of his nose over Liam’s cheek while a giggle floats from his chest, Liam’s following so surely.

“I guess I’m a fool for him,” Zayn says with a whispered _‘and you too’_ that’s pressed into Liam’s skin rather than his ear.  The swallowed gasp in Liam’s throat draws up a careless snicker from Zayn and the short hairs on the edge of his chin drag patiently over Zayn’s bare shoulder.

“I’m skipping class to fuck you against the desk,” Liam says shamelessly and Zayn loves the way the thick of his voice strokes him rougher than any of the words from his lips.

Zayn smiles, curving his fingers to the tendons in Liam’s neck.  “Tea and a film first, yeah?”

Liam blurts out a laugh and nods.  He knocks Zayn back before tugging him in for a kiss and after Zayn’s cleaned the remaining shaving cream from his face, they curl around each other on the settee with that stupid mug of orange tea, _the Princess Bride_ queued on Liam’s laptop and Zayn thinks he’s finally in love with this town.

And maybe someone else too, but that feels too sugary to say so he settles for moaning Liam’s name in sweet breaths on every other thrust when Liam _does_ fuck him against the desk halfway through the film.

**

The rush of the crowd is different this Saturday, during an afternoon game with everything flickering loud, loud, and the hilt of a green-blue flame is nothing like the heat of the cheering Uni students.  He buries himself in the pulse of a _let’s go Tommo_ and the urgent sound of _we want Payno_ with a grin and nervous fingers pulling at the copper lengths of his quiff.  Niall’s somewhere, half across the stadium, lost in a sea of black shirts with the Block Party turning the volume up higher and higher until all of their cheers echo over the pitch.  He’s leaning into Harry through it all, with a long arm around his shoulders and dimples loud like radio frequencies every time Harry spots Louis crossing the green field.

They share coffees together at halftime and chat casually with Cher and Jade until Zayn can get over the buzz of Liam’s last play, the way he smiled so brightly like _‘one more game closer to the championships’_ was etched into his expression.  Zayn thinks, distantly, the stretch of flush in his cheeks and the stars in his eyes were just for Zayn when he searched the crowd for something after his last goal but he buries that next to _I think I love you_ and _could you not make me feel like I’m your everything_.

He’s indulgent when Harry gives him a play by play because he’s so _invested_ and it draws up a wicked grin over Zayn’s lips at those bright, bright green eyes.  He jumps out of his seat when Maz steals the ball across the field, passing it to Andy, shuffling it down to Liam, and the _almost_ goal echoes through the stadium like thunder.

“The kid,” and Zayn tries not to shoot Harry an incredulous look because _really Harry_ , “really is coming into his own out here.  Heard Lou say that the coach is really considering changing his position next season.”

“But he’s so good on the back field,” Zayn says and he cringes at the way Niall’s constant chats about the game and his own insistent interest in everything Liam has rubbed off on him.

Harry grins at him, a little too wide, and Zayn punches his shoulder to silence the _‘you really have fallen’_ that’s probably waiting on Harry’s tongue.

“You’re right,” Harry says with as much affection as he can push out, sliding on a pair of Ray Bans he probably stole from Niall, flopping his curls with a large hand and Zayn exhales an _‘I hate you’_ that’s devoid of cruelty and crinkled with his smirk.

They rock in their seats to something techno and Lady Gaga during a timeout with their shoulders knocking and fingers tangled together because _unity_ is becoming one of his new favorite words.  He catches a glimpse of Niall in his snapback with riotous blue eyes and a sharp smile, clapping and barking out _‘Watch out!  It’s a Tommo!’_ when Louis steps up for a corner kick.

“He’s really been working on his angles and he’s five for six on tries at practices,” Harry explains fleetingly, leaning forward with elbows on his knees and eyes golden for Louis only.

“And you two have – “

Harry huffs out a laugh, cheeks a new shade of vermilion that Zayn remembers from art class in secondary school.

“We’re an _on the verge_ most of the time,” Harry says, sounding so poetic and diplomatic that Zayn doesn’t dare ask what he means.  He settles back into his seat and clasps a warm hand on Harry’s shoulder for support rather than sympathy this time.

Andy reaches high to lop the ball off of his head down the opposite end of the field and Liam chases it with a wild fervor that sizzles up Zayn’s skin.  He smirks, tries to swallow a laugh at the way Liam’s tongue hangs out and his eyes squint in concentration but there’s a precision about his movement that’s almost carefree.  Zayn leans forward with Harry and he can’t help the way he mouths _‘Payno smash’_ with the Block Party just because.

There’s a miscue in the play somewhere when Louis goes to volley it towards the goal but misses.  Liam slides roughly in the green of the pitch to catch the ball before it slips away but his timing is off and the thud of the other team’s player’s foot colliding with Liam’s chest knocks louder than the gasp of the crowd or the sharp sting of the referee’s whistle.

It’s a bristling silence when half of the team floods onto the pitch and there’s bodies crowding Liam until Zayn can only see the edge of his pulled up socks, still feet, and his heart’s never climbed so swiftly up his throat before.  He’s on his feet seconds after everyone else because his knees are weak and his legs are shaky and _breathe, just breathe_ sounds so fucking fictional until he realizes he’s not even bothering to do that.

He’s wasted on previous bits of air and the way his fingers tremble, even when Harry grips his hand and turns to him.

He’s blinking at the field and the sad faces and Niall’s staring at _him_ instead of Liam crumpled on the pitch.  It feels so fucking paralyzing like that thin sheet of ice covering the dark waters of a lake during winter cracking beneath your feet.  He’s waiting to drown – or maybe just for the shock because numbness would feel perfect right now.

There’s a few medics and the slow roll of applause when Liam gets to his feet but Zayn hasn’t started breathing yet.  Not until Liam lifts his head a little, waves at the crowd even though he’s got both arms strewn around Maz and Andy’s shoulders.  Louis is the constant in all of this with a blank face and unruly fringe shadowing the glassy sheen over his eyes.  He blinks up at Harry, then Zayn, before nodding like _he’s okay_ but Zayn doesn’t believe him.

He doesn’t believe himself when he smiles back at Louis.

Harry tugs at his hand, impatient and desperate, before he leans in to whisper, “Come on, man.  I’ll take you ‘round back to the lockers.”

Zayn follows on stumbling feet and they’re through the crowd, up the stairs, and passing a curious Niall toward a dark tunnel that’s probably reserved for team members, coaches, staff, and scouts only.  But Harry’s all charm like he always is and flashes the female security guard a wide smile, sharp dimples, and the kind of eyes that Zayn would find disgusting but he’s thankful in this moment for that cheeky idiot.

Harry paces back and forth outside of the locker room like a doting father while Zayn leans against a dense gray wall, flicking the flame of his lighter like a twitch he can’t stop.  Harry hums in broken lines of something from shit college radio – _So we’re alone again. I wish it was over; we seem to never end_ – and Zayn tilts his head back to stare at the stupid flickering fluorescent light overhead that’s seconds from dying but illuminates up the stretch of the tunnel with a weak glow.  He turns his head when a few of the reserve players scatter from the locker room with rough frowns and sympathetic looks that Zayn doesn’t dare take in.  Harry fields their looks, patting their shoulders and leading them away just so Zayn can breathe and –

He will not cry.  He will not be a circumstantial victim of his own romance.  He refuses to be the gap between _Bradford_ and _home_ because this town, this feeling, this boy is not that.

Harry curls around Liam when he limps out of the room, whining into Liam’s shoulder and squeezing a little too tight until Liam winces, pinching him away.

“Stupid twat,” Harry exhales out, dragging the heel of his palm over his eyes until they’re a scary red and his cheeks are flushed.  He sniffles, smacking Liam’s arm before wetly kissing his cheek, hugging him a little softer.  “I’m not supposed to give a shit about you.”

Liam laughs weakly, the sound caught around a hard breath that looks like it pains Liam.  “Love you too Styles.”

Harry nods, rubbing at the buzz of Liam’s hair until Liam smacks him away and they smile at each other like brothers rather than mates and Zayn wonders, between the ache and the relief, when this relationship progressed in such a warm way.

“Poor sod looked right miserable,” Harry whispers in that way where he thinks he’s quiet but actually quite loud, grinning over his shoulder at Zayn and laughing when Zayn greets him with an extended middle finger.  “Bloody tosser is right performer.  We should enroll him in theater rather than the droll studies of Da Vinci and the invigorating brilliance of Warhol and pop art.”

Liam snickers into his shoulder and Zayn can’t help the smile he offers Harry because, fuck, he thinks he loves that curly-haired bastard more and more with each breath.

And he’s _breathing_ again, still a little unsteady, but it gets easier every time Liam shyly looks at him.

Harry’s halfway down the hall, with his back to them and Cher holding his attention when Zayn crowds Liam into the thick gray wall behind him.  He’s got careful hands dusting Liam’s cheek, down his neck, skipping his ribs and chest in favor of his hips and the soft skin on the inside of his wrist.  He leans in, foreheads pressed together instantly, and Liam’s wide-eyed and so fucking apologetic with his eyes.

“Just bruised,” Liam says after a long beat, hugging at his ribs with one arm while his free fingers shade over Zayn’s hip, stealing beneath the hem of his shirt to play at Zayn’s side.

Zayn tries to nod but he’s so close to Liam, bodies connected at their feet, ankles brushing, Zayn between Liam’s thighs, fingers searching out their favorite places.

“Doctors say I’ll probably be out for at least two games,” Liam adds, his voice small and wounded.  His eyes are tipped downward, matching the descending arch of his lips, and Zayn strokes a thumb over his cheek for support.

“Do you need me to,” he swallows around the last of his words because he honestly doesn’t think any of them are good enough.  He’s sheepish when Liam lifts his eyes and he’s the hurt one now, curling in closer until Liam’s arm separates their chests.

Liam smiles, chewing on his bottom lip for a second.  “You okay?”

“I should be asking _you_ that,” Zayn breathes out, sinking in those last few inches before Liam can reply.  They kiss like it heals and burns away the anxiety.  It’s slow, tempered but so perfect underneath that stupid flickering light that washes out the color in Liam’s skin and turns Zayn’s hair silver.

He flattens a palm on either side of Liam’s head to escape the need to peel away his jersey and kiss at the dark colored bruises shading Liam’s skin an awful yellow-green.  His lips chase words off of Liam’s tongue and Liam whimpers like _thank you_ while Zayn nuzzles their noses.

“Wasn’t scared or worried about you,” Zayn insists with a half-grin and his teeth are catching his bottom lip before he gives away his lie.

“Then why are you shaking?” Liam teases, hands sculpting Zayn’s sides now.

“I was just – “

Liam laughs into his cheek and Zayn wonders if he can feel the burn there.  He settles on rubbing at the nape of Liam’s neck and knocking their knees together.

“Shut it,” Zayn sighs, grinning right against Liam’s mouth.  Liam almost does, giggling in that way that makes his eyes crinkle and he looks high off of something a little more persuasive than medicated drugs.  Something like –

Zayn kisses him instead of thinking about that.  He steadies his lips to Liam’s until they pull back bruised and shiny and Liam’s needy with his touches until Zayn kisses him again.  He smiles into the kiss and ignores the catcalls from Harry and Liam’s teammates down the hall but the acoustics down here are so brilliant that he can’t help but laugh with Liam through a few more thorough kisses that leave them both breathless.

**

“I can’t believe you made me come here.”

There’s a resigned smile – half-on, half-off – heavy on Liam’s pinks lips with his arms folded across his chest like he’s meant to be imposing but, honestly, he looks so unsure with the muscles in his arms jumping and the tension in his shoulders too tight.  Zayn looks up with a sideways, curved grin that startles Liam as he finishes the last half of his cigarette.  He can almost hear Liam’s breathing – unsteady and telling – with the noise of the stadium just behind them and the buzz that always comes just before a game encasing them.

Zayn sniffs, thumbing his nose, trying to disguise part of that grin that draws up Liam’s fuzzy eyebrows while pushing a small frown against those lips.

He quirks an eyebrow, smoke still in his lungs with his voice tight when he says, “You’d rather be stuck in your room?  Or better yet, would you like your mum to come bring you soup again?”

Liam makes a face, sticking out his tongue before shaking his head.  “She worries too much.”

“She’s a mummy,” Zayn says with a flicker of laughter, tapping at the filter to dust off the ashes from his fag, “’s what she’s supposed to do.”

Liam lifts his brow, amused.  “It’s fucking bullshit.”

“You hang around Lou too much,” Zayn chides with a lifted smile.  He kicks the toe of his boot along the curb, blowing out smoke as a few calls from University kids and town’s people beat towards Liam.

Liam offers a small wave, a put upon smile, and Zayn feels numb for two seconds before the ache.  He knows Liam doesn’t want to be here – game day, at the stadium, still not fully healed.  It’s never quite said but it shows in the way Liam flinches at the mention of practice or new plays or _‘four more games until the tournament’_ that Louis lets slip incidentally, a little too much.  Liam hides disappointment and frustration behind cracked smiles and uninterested eyes until he can’t anymore, burying his face in Zayn’s neck and pleading for _home_ with his fingers biting a little too sharply into Zayn’s back.

“We don’t have to go in,” Liam says around a weak smile, eyes flitting toward the entrance where dozens of patrons barrel in and his fingers keep picking at the sleeve of his shirt in that nervous way that was once adorable but now it’s painful in ways Zayn can’t express.

He takes in another huff of smoke, lifting his shoulders carelessly.  “You think?  Think you’ll be alright missing them play?”

There’s a little too much silence outside of the roar of traffic and incoming fans with painted faces and team shirts and Zayn waits until Liam looks resolved before reaching out to press careful fingers to his chin.  He flicks off the last of his cigarette, smiling, and Liam sinks into the touch.

“C’mon, you don’t have to,” Zayn says lowly, his thumb outlining Liam’s jaw.  “We both know you want to make sure they’re okay… without you.”

Liam tilts his head until the soft of his cheek presses to Zayn’s palm and he nods.  He takes in a shallow breath because his ribs are still bruised – his ego too – and he drags Zayn in for a hug that lasts long enough for Zayn to feel warm and composed in those strong arms.

“I’m gonna hate you later for making me watch this,” Liam says into his neck, his smile imprinted into Zayn’s skin.

Zayn huffs a laugh, lazy fingers running up and down Liam’s spine.

“I’ll make up for it with some head and that little thing you like with my finger – “

Liam gasps, pinching Zayn’s side until they part with laughs and smiles meant for each other, not the world.

**

He still remembers Liam begging off any more medical attention after that game with a crumpled face and a forced grin.  He can feel the sting of Louis’ words – “You fucking dick, you could have _broken ribs_ and how dare you act like I don’t know.  I’ve watched a dozen medical dramas in my life, thank you.” – and the way Harry was so concerned, the cautious smile Niall wore whenever he touched Liam’s shoulder or pulled him close just for support.

He refused to listen to Liam’s whines or stubborn pout when he drug him to the hospital the next morning with Liam’s breathing shallow and tan skin a rough contrast to the dark burgundy bruises decorating his ribs.  He’s learned enough medical terms to know it was okay to feel relief shake his shoulders when the doctor on the seventh floor with X-rays and a kind smile threw out things like _bruised, not fractured_ and _nothing’s broken_ and _thankfully the swelling will decrease because Mr. Payne you could’ve cracked something_.  His mum drug Liam in for a soft embrace and shoved them towards the pharmacy for prescriptions and he’ll never quite forget the relief that washed over Liam’s face when the doctor added _‘your career is not ruined but a few games off and some much needed rest will do you just fine.’_

The rise and fall of cheers just before the game echoes him back to the way Liam curled around him in bed that night, pressing rough fingers to his skin to tap out _I need you_ and, with a cracked voice, _‘what am I gonna do in the meantime?’_

Zayn’s certain he’s never wanted more than to be someone’s _in the meantime_ after that.

He can feel the stain of something awful when Liam’s fingers wrap tightly around his as they descend down the stairs toward the seats a little too close to the pitch for Liam’s likings, eyes following them – or _Liam_ because Zayn was still nothing to this town’s people, something he appreciates – and Harry’s grin when he spots them rushes him like a hollow rainbow after a storm.

Harry pulls them in for hugs and kisses on the cheek and he’s very, very careful when he touches Liam like he’s fresh blown glass.  Liam leans into him with a welcoming smile that feels so real, fingers still twined with Zayn’s like he’s pleading a _don’t let me go yet_.

“Lou looks so sad out there,” Harry mentions, reaching over Liam’s wide shoulders to press fingers to Zayn’s neck and Zayn grins, drawing in his bottom lip.

“Even the sex was awkward before the game,” Harry adds and Liam groans, elbowing Harry while Zayn winces.

“Fuck off Haz,” Liam laughs, shaking and a hand reaches for those still tender ribs, Zayn’s folding over it like the broken sound in Liam’s next breath hurts him too.

“The bloody wanker didn’t even let me nut off,” Harry hums and Zayn strokes the back of Liam’s hand over his chest, grinning into his shoulder and he thinks this is what Liam needed all along.

**

Liam’s in awe most of the game, calling plays before they happen, barking at the referee for all the wrong calls, cheering as loud as he can with the other fans before settling back down in the crook of Zayn’s arm with a grin pressed to his lips.  He works slow lips to Zayn’s jaw during timeouts and thumbs messages to Louis on his phone, chatting Harry up about rivals and next year and his fingers dance over Zayn’s thigh like he just wants the connection beneath his skin.

Harry chats about practices that Liam’s missed, classes, the awful lecture he sat through yesterday while Niall roars from the other side of the stadium with the Block Party swallowing him in chants.

The sky is that silver, almost charcoal color that reminds Zayn of rainy days in Bradford and lazy afternoons in bed, still recovering from a hangover.  It’s nothing like that now – the skyline reminds him of coffee with Harry, striding through the town’s streets with Niall by his side and a shared cigarette, and he can’t help but think about the way those soft shades of gunmetal and taupe remind him of Liam’s joggers or the bedspread in his room while they’re lying together with no words, just innocent kisses that turn _real_ before Zayn realizes it.

And he thinks that spread of slate grey looks so much like the heavy sky the afternoon behind the stadium when he realized this is not a _forever_ but that’s overrun by _‘it’s an us and not a you and me.’_

“I’ve never been here before,” Liam says at the end of halftime with a steady movement of fingers across Zayn’s jeans, a thumb curling inward.  His smile is shy and he bites off a small laugh like he’s embarrassed before he adds, “I mean, on the sidelines.  I’ve never just, I don’t know, watched the lads play.”

He looks so awed with bright eyes and goosebumps in the wake of Zayn’s fingers across the nape of his neck.  His teeth bite his bottom lip raw and he ducks his head until Zayn smirks, tucking fingers under his chin to lift it.

“Having fun?”

Liam nods, shyly.  He presses into the touch before a smile curls across his lips.  He stretches his neck and halts before a kiss just to stare at Zayn’s eyes.

“I suppose it’s not that bad,” Liam whispers, the world just white noise now around them.

Zayn laughs, soft and heavy, before he brushes the end of his nose against Liam’s.

“Admit it,” he dares, smirking.

Liam shrugs but his smile spreads like open sunshine just before dusk.

“Fuck off,” Liam giggles, his tongue leaving his lips wet and shiny.

Zayn flickers his eyes to them, thinks about biting them sore just to heal them with longer kisses.  He anchors his feelings to the way Liam strokes up his leg and the pulse of blush that decorates Liam’s cheeks is incredible in this light.

“Get a room you twats,” Harry hisses with a smirk over Liam’s shoulder and Zayn flips him off with a grin before jerking Liam forward for a kiss, carving out the words his tongue can’t carry.

**

Niall begs them into beers and post-celebratory bliss after the game, with Harry tugging them down the streets toward Smith’s where Louis and half of the team are hidden away in booths.  The pub is stacked with University students and most of the Block Party and Niall’s grinding against Cher in a corner with Ashton and Calum laughing it off between games of darts.

Liam looks weary for the first few minutes, chewing at his lip, shoulders stiff again and Zayn knows he, for once, feels out of place.  It’s almost as if he knows he hasn’t done anything to contribute to this celebration and the tension in his jaw shows so unpleasantly under the harsh lighting of this place.  He’s got flitting eyes, an arm wrapped around his ribs, and a faded off grin anytime someone greets him with a beer he turns down immediately.

“They won by luck and Andy completely ruined that goal you would’ve made with your eyes closed,” Zayn whispers to him under the boom of the National and loud chattering, smiling against the shell of Liam’s ear.  “And it’s a shame you don’t know how sick you are on the field but I’ve never seen anyone move like that.”

Liam’s eyes light up and he lowers his chin a little, trying to hide his smile like the world’s too big now and Zayn can see the smile that shines on his lips.  It’s something warm and authentic between them as Liam brushes his fingers over Zayn’s knuckles like a _thank you_ he can’t quite say.

“You’re an idiot,” Liam tells him with that goofy grin that should not be so appealing but Zayn can’t help himself.  “And you’re ridiculous and I can’t believe you think _Thor_ was half the film _Captain America_ was.”

Zayn grins, poking Liam just beneath bruised ribs.  “Sometimes I think you would prefer Steve Rogers’ cock in your mouth.”

Liam snorts, kicking at Zayn’s foot.  “I might get a stiffy over the fact that he’s so fit to have been trapped in ice for so long,” he says, leaning in until his breath loosens a smile to Zayn’s lips.  “But I’d shove him back into the Artic for your cock, babe, trust me.”

There’s a choked noise at the back of his throat, blush ruining his cheeks, and he has to nudge Liam’s hip with his own to stop himself from dropping to his knees and worshiping Liam’s cock in a room full of sweaty sports and half-drunk University students.

He keeps the distance between them minimal after that, letting Liam guide him through the bar with an _alive_ look in those coffee-shaded eyes and a smile like sunshine.  The sound of laughter from Liam’s lips tickles his ears every time Andy tells an impressively funny joke and he watches Liam share a few beers with Maz and Jade while Louis chats his ear off about all fuck’s of unimportant things.  He presses his hip to Liam’s and his palms are sweaty from the constant connection of their hands but it burns through him like fresh oxygen.

There’s a scattering of people he doesn’t recognize that Liam chats up and tugs Zayn close each time with a grin.  His fingers slide into the dip of Zayn’s spine, encouraging smirks that leave Zayn flushed before Liam introduces him, with a lofty voice and daydream eyes, as _‘This is Zayn Malik, the reason I can’t stop smiling and all I’ve been missing.’_

He thinks it’s a little overdone and sickeningly romantic but he can’t help the way a smile sticks to his lips and the way he wants to kiss those words off Liam’s mouth.  He doesn’t, nodding at everyone, and letting the pink staining his cheeks draw up a quiet laugh from Liam’s chest.  He manages to corner Liam between some kids from Liam’s old secondary school and a few mates from Lit class just to suck a shiny red mark to his collar as his wordless way of saying _‘This is Liam Payne and he’s the reason my cock keeps trying to escape my pants.’_

“You two are impressively gross,” Louis says when he perches himself into Liam’s lap at a table cluttered with teammates, University girls too drunk to give two fucks about roaming hands, and a few chaps Liam knows from classes.  He’s got a mug of lager in hand with a new piece of ruddy artwork bruising the skin of his neck via Harry Styles’ lips and tongue and that grin pressed to his mouth is incredible.

Liam groans, dragging fingers through Louis’ mused hair before taking a few sips of his beer.  His fingers blindly find Zayn’s beneath the table and Zayn breathes out a smile meant for Liam but caught by Louis.

“Disgusting,” Louis adds, rolling his eyes.  He leans into _Zayn_ , not Liam, with a wrinkled nose before he says, “You’ve ruined my best mate, you twat.  How can I repay you?”

Liam’s breath hitches and Zayn smirks, tapping Louis’ nose with a knuckle.  He licks at his lips, smiling, “You’re welcome, bro.”

Louis barks out a laugh and misses when Liam cranes his neck to steal a kiss from Zayn’s parted lips, the flick of his tongue around the edges of Zayn’s mouth promising.

Niall settles into the empty seat next to Zayn with a loud laugh and his mouth still attached to Cher’s, jostling all of them until Louis flicks him in the back of the head.  It forces Zayn into Liam’s injured side and he’s careful, careful with his weight until Liam wraps an arm around his neck to drag him closer with his lips mouthing the thick of Zayn’s hair.  Harry’s in a corner with that charming smile that sets a curl to ocean waves and Zayn thinks, hesitantly, this is so much like a _forever_.

It’s disturbing and sets his skin cold until Liam soothes him with a press of lips to his neck and he reels into the abyss until he can’t breathe without all of them angling his sides.

**

They abandon Smith’s and a pissed Niall and a snogging Harry and Louis for the quiet, quiet streets and the still night with a Byzantium sky and cold fresh air.

They move in unison with their hands tucked together, the world stretched out wide and endless for them – _This dream isn’t feeling sweet. We’re reeling through the midnight streets_.  Liam knocks his shoulder to his every few steps, grinning until Zayn’s heart finds an unsteady rhythm that he’s so used to now.  He squeezes Liam’s hand a little tighter and that quiet blush high on Liam’s cheeks looks rose under the feverish street lamps.

“Tell me your story,” Liam requests – no, _begs_ because he’s so childlike and wondrous tonight – with wide eyes after the silence between them feels like a warm fire.

Zayn hauls in a rough inhale, fixing nervous fingers into his hair until the product gives way.  He bites at a corner of his lip, catches the way regret sinks into Liam’s face.  It’s resonant like his heart in his throat and he leads Liam down a foreign street just to feel out of place again.

He clears his throat and feels vulnerable under Liam’s gaze before he says, “My parents aren’t in love anymore.  They’re together, yes, but they aren’t in love.  They’re together for Wali and Safaa and, part of me believe it was for Doni and me a long, long time ago.”

There’s a shift of something cool that spirals between them before Liam comes closer, shoulders rubbing, shared breaths.  He counts the beats between his heart and quiet breaths – _And I’ve never felt more alone. It feels so scary getting old_ – and the way Liam looks at him with reverence.

“I think it’s why I’ve acted out and been such a prat.  Or maybe it’s because I just want _freedom_ , y’know?  Because I’ve always been expected to be something I’m not quite,” Zayn explains, loosening that tightness in his chest for a cigarette by reaching up to spread his fingers over buzzed hair.

“And my mum has done a brilliant job of convincing everyone it’s okay, that she’s happy,” Zayn sighs, pressing into the stroke of Liam’s thumb when it rests on the nape of his neck.  The pressure is full but soft and it eases him before he adds, “She’s a shit liar at everything else but this.  I’ve never wanted to run away more than when I realized that, most of the time, there isn’t really a happy ending.”

Liam stops them, hauls Zayn into his arms before Zayn can argue and the swell of those muscles against his shoulders is astonishing – _You’re the only friend I need. Sharing beds like little kids_.  He hides his face in the crook of Liam’s neck, bites gently at the skin until Liam shakes and that itch underneath his skin wears thin.

“Tell me more,” Liam whispers, his nose at Zayn’s hairline.

Zayn swallows, smiling.  “Doniya is a brilliant artist.  She saved up some quid with a bunch of her mates so she could ditch off at some art school in a city that was nowhere near Bradford.  We still chat, all of the time, and she’s so encouraging.  She wants me to fucking make it, without the pressure of being what my parents want.”

“Are you angry with them?” Liam inquires, his hand inching down Zayn’s spine until everything uncoils and he feels relaxed.

“No,” Zayn admits, low and rough.  His eyes slide shut before he breathes Liam in.  “They want the best, at least me mum does.  She’s so supportive and thinks I’m something more than I actually am.  I’d muck up art school or being a teacher or whatever she thinks I am.”

“You wouldn’t,” Liam says with so much assurance that Zayn has to turn his head to flake his lips over Liam’s birthmark.

Zayn snorts, curving his arms around Liam’s waist for a moment – _We’ll laugh until our ribs get tough_.

“They want what’s best for you, I suppose,” Liam notes, stretching his neck to offer Zayn more.  “You never had dreams of something other than Bradford?”

Zayn careens into Liam, his thumb tiptoeing over bruised ribs.  “Wasn’t one of those kids who wanted to be a doctor or lawyer, though my family wanted that.  I wanted to draw comic books, maybe write.  I hated school, though I was pretty good at it.  Shit at Math but I was ace at Literature.”

“I hated _Catcher in the Rye_ because I never could finish it,” Liam whispers and Zayn can feel his smile.

“Read it three times.”

“Nerd,” Liam teases and Zayn tickles fingers up his side until Liam curves his arms tighter around Zayn to hold him still.

“My baba used to buy me comics and teach me how to sketch out my favorite scenes.  He’d teach me how to play guitar and, almost every Saturday, we went into the city to the bookstore so I could find all of my favorite authors,” Zayn says with a fondness that hasn’t scratched his throat or slid across his tongue in _years_.  There’s an ache just above his stomach and a tremble where Liam isn’t touching him.

Liam laughs into his ear, coasting warm breath over his cheek.  “My dad would spend hours watching me play in the backyard.  He’s shit at football but he’d coach me and let me stay out there for hours until mummy called us in for dinner.”

He curls his fingers around Liam’s hips, pulling gently until Liam understands and they’re pressed so firmly together that he thinks breathing is probably unnecessary.

“I miss home,” he concedes with a shaky voice.  “I miss my mates, Ant and Danny.  I miss the smoke and the city and the fucking food.  There’s this one place downtown with fantastic curry, better than my mum’s, and I’d sit for hours by this stupid old fountain that’s dried up just drawing.”

He doesn’t feel Liam’s frown, not immediately, but something in his touch hardens and his heart loses its rhythm against Zayn’s chest.

“You’re going back,” Liam says, his voice swallowed by the shiver in his words.

Zayn sucks in another long strip of air.  He noses Liam’s collar, memorizing the shape and the heat of Liam’s skin before pressing down into the hollow.

“I’ve thought about it,” he whispers, finding the dimples in Liam’s back without trying, “but something keeps me here.  Could’ve left months ago if not for me mum and – “

“And,” Liam repeats, sounding hopeful.

Zayn doesn’t attach the _‘you’_ because it bites at his tongue like a needle.  He inks it to Liam’s skin instead, everything about Bradford so unfamiliar when buried in these arms.

“Stay with me tonight,” Liam requests, breathing the words into Zayn’s hair.  “Please?”

He doesn’t reply because he _can’t_.  His throat caves in and his tongue goes dry but he tangles their fingers as they walk down a few familiar streets toward the campus and the short message he thumbs out to his mum about bunking at Niall’s tonight is the sort of lie he learned from watching his parents pretend all these years.

And it feels nothing like regret when Liam smiles into his collar while budging open the door to his room.

**

It’s midafternoon on a Thursday with the sky that certain kind of ash gray where the clouds sit low with the sun still hung high behind the silver.  The ground outside is still wet from the early morning rainstorm, thick droplets of rain sitting on the grass and dripping from the leaves, and the air is heady with that metallic scent that sits for hours after a shower.

The air in Liam’s Uni room is thick with a dry sweetness, from the lit vanilla candle in the corner, the mug of cold tea that’s laced with cinnamon, the aroma of Liam’s cologne and body wash against the linen.  The sun casts charcoal rays over the desk, across the screen of Liam’s laptop with _Wreck It Ralph_ playing on repeat and dirty socks litter the floor next to a pair of Converse and Zayn’s boots.  The dock, with Liam’s phone connected, shifts through Justin Timberlake on a constant loop like hailing comets in the sky, the moon orbiting the earth.

Liam’s sheets are cold, cold against the back of his calves, tangled around them but loose enough that Zayn can find the kind of friction he’s been searching for.  He’s spent a lazy half-hour searing kisses to Liam’s neck, his tongue tracing shiny lines over Liam’s birthmark, his teeth sinking into skin until pretty red marks burst across the tan hue.  He can feel Liam’s heartbeat – _so fast, so loud_ – through the thin Superman t-shirt he stole from Liam and it’s silly, the way his mouth keeps unconsciously forming smiles each time Liam’s breath hitches or he hiccups out Zayn’s name like a _plea_.

Like a prayer.  Like a call to war.  Like he might love –

He’s kissed away the saltiness of the crisps Liam was eating after early morning classes, his eyelashes beating against Liam’s cheek when thick fingers skimmed up his spine to feel the contours and definition in his bones.  There’s a white noise, pure static in his ears because everything is so quiet outside except for the aftershocks of the rain.  His lips feel swollen but unforgiving and Liam, with his head tipped back, spreads his legs so willing for lube-slick fingers that keep circling the rim of his hole.

“Fuck,” Liam hisses into Zayn’s ear, cheeks stained pink with bruised lips parted.  He shifts beneath Zayn under the sheets, rolls his hips until his cock sticks to Zayn’s stomach with thick precome keeping them attached.

Zayn grins, biting playfully at Liam’s bare shoulder.  The floor is a collage of abandon clothing – Zayn’s jeans, Liam’s joggers, the oversized hoodie he wore to class, unopened textbooks weighing down Zayn’s briefs, Liam’s snapback half-hidden under Liam’s stretched out hoodie.  There’s a flush to Liam’s neck, skin decorated in pink and the small love bites Zayn’s left behind this afternoon to match the ones from last night.

“Doing good, babe,” Zayn whispers against Liam’s cheek, twisting his finger inside of Liam until he’s one, two knuckles deep before withdrawing.

The give of muscle, the shudder up Liam’s spine when Zayn slides back in is the kind of smoke that fills the senses rather than his lungs.  Liam bites down on his lip with blown eyes like he’s so gone for this.  His thighs part a little wider, a foot kicking from under the bedspread and Zayn grins into the hollow of his neck just to stop himself from forgoing all the prep to stretch Liam wide with the base of his hard cock instead.

He casually gives himself a small squeeze beneath the sheets just for the relief and the breathy laugh that escapes Liam’s lips forces him to drag his canines over Liam’s shoulder in playful retaliation.

“You’re sinful,” Liam giggles, heaving out heavy breaths with his eyes on the ceiling rather than Zayn.

 _You’re my reason for breathing_ , Zayn thinks but it sounds silly, daft on the replay and he lets it waste away on his tongue before dragging the tip under Liam’s jaw.  He grinds in the space between Liam’s thighs, his cock spreading slick drops of precome across the sheets beneath them and he wants those stains to remind Liam of what he’s doing to Zayn.

He wants his name – _first, middle, last_ – inked into Liam’s collar and _‘you are my Bruce Wayne’_ tattooed between his shoulder blades so every time Liam sinks into him from behind, he’ll know Zayn is _his_.

Liam whimpers, a hand cupping the nape of Zayn’s neck while his other maps out the tension in Zayn’s forearm as he adds a second finger.  His thumb strokes that sensitive skin between balls and hole, licking away the moan Liam keeps holding in until Liam succumbs to a kiss that feels like _gratitude_ rather than lust.

“Another?” Zayn asks, scissoring his fingers, inching his middle finger in a little deeper, deeper still.

“Jesus, Zayn – “

Zayn grins into his collar, pushing down on that bundles of nerves, curving at an angle he’s practiced on himself a few too many times while in bed alone.  Liam twists beneath him, fingers pinching into Zayn’s shoulder and his cock is rubbing impatiently against Zayn’s stomach until the dampness is heavy.

“C’mon babe,” Zayn says against Liam’s mouth, smiling into a short kiss, “you can do better than that.”

“You arse,” Liam heaves out with a chuckle, biting at his lip as he grinds down onto Zayn’s long fingers.  “Give me another.”

Zayn nods, kissing at Liam’s cheek and he adds far too much lube this time when he pulls out but Liam’s so open when he adds a third finger.  He’s hot pressure and warm skin and clenched stomach muscles.  His kisses drag like lazy mornings and his hands roam over Zayn’s shoulder, a thumb pressing into ink like he’s trying to remember all of Zayn’s tattoos without looking.

Liam bucks up, screws down onto Zayn’s hand and his shoulders tense up when Zayn strikes that spot again.  He holds in a tight breath with Zayn’s mouth sucking wetly on the center of his chest and Zayn soothes a hand to his hip just to shake the air out of him.

“S’okay,” Zayn promises, kissing along Liam’s jaw, the scruff light and scratchy over Zayn’s lips.  “Just want you loose for my – “

“Oh fuck, don’t say it.”

Zayn snorts, nodding.  He kisses at Liam’s temple and he’s not really sure where the condoms are but something starry and trusting falls over Liam’s face.  The sun, in its rawest form, shines over Liam’s eyes and they’re like burnt caramel.

“Do it bare,” Liam gasps, fingers pressing firmly into the muscle of Zayn’s arm.

Zayn grins, dragging his nose over Liam’s.  “You sure?”

“I’m sure if you don’t fuck me soon, I’ll come without your dick,” Liam laughs out, shaky fingers running over the prism on the inside of Zayn’s arm.  “And I don’t want that.”

Zayn drags his fingers out, Liam releasing a helpless moan with shaking thighs and his chest a fascinating shade of red.  Zayn slicks himself with a healthy amount of lube that leaves his prick glossy and he lines himself up on Liam’s next inhale, rubbing the head over Liam’s puckered hole for far too long for the thrill of friction.

Liam mumbles something, chewing on his lip, throwing an arm over his eyes like he’s embarrassed about how bad he wants it.  He twists his hips, scoots down until the tip pushes a little further in and Zayn tugs his arm away from his face to watch the way Liam’s cheeks turn soft pink and his eyes go wide.

“You can say you want it,” Zayn teases, leaning in, shifting his hips down and _there_.  “’Cause I want it too, Liam.  Yeah man, I want to fuck you.  I’m gonna.”

Zayn draws back to look between them, to watch the way Liam’s cock sits hard and plump against his stomach, the tip shiny and wet.  He stutters his hips, catching the head of his cock on the rim of Liam’s hole and Liam writhes beneath him, shamefully biting at his lip.

Liam’s all tension and slack together, wound up but so willingly relaxed.  His fingers pull at the sheets and his legs shift further apart to give Zayn room.  His hips tip up and his cock spits out more precome as Zayn pushes in again, sinking in properly, just the head.  He pauses, watches the way Liam’s jaw goes limp and his eyes crinkle up with satisfaction rather than a smile.  He’s a warm tightness that Zayn gasps on and Liam’s legs are so open, his chest rising and falling so quickly, his eyes half-open in awe.

Zayn strokes at Liam’s free cheek when Liam turns his head to bury the other one in the pillow, his face a solid red now with sweat shining off his forehead.  His shoulders draw up when Zayn sinks deeper, midway, and Zayn draws back quickly to loosen Liam up some more.  It’s a steady shallow push inward until Liam’s body gets used to his cock, never going too deep while one hand holds Liam’s thighs open.

Liam whimpers beneath, little shaky sounds that sound like _more, more, more_ but he can’t form the words.  His tongue licks at dry lips and Zayn smiles at him, resting a hand on his stomach, just above his cock, to feel the muscles flutter on each inhale, exhale.  He shifts his cock further in, the tension in Liam’s thighs wrapping around his hips before he draws back, slowly.

There’s a gradual build to Liam’s moans, nothing too loud but permanent enough that Zayn prefers it to the sound of Justin Timberlake’s voice – _Frequency so low. Heart on a string. A string that only plays solos._   The heat that surrounds him is blistering, his arms going shaky as he tries to maintain balance and control.  Liam’s lips shift open for nothingness but the hollowed breaths that echo in the room are so encouraging and distracting.

When he sinks in fully, Liam’s caught on an inhale and Zayn’s twisting his hips left to right just to make sure Liam _feels_ him.  It’s intoxicating – _Under the water you scream so loud but the silence surrounds you. But I hear it loud and you fall in the deep and I’ll always find you_ – when Liam gasps, fingers tangled in soft linen, eyes on the ceiling.  It draws up a small grin across Zayn’s mouth and he slips back until only the head rests in Liam, encased in the fever of Liam’s hole.

Liam’s face is pinched, brow lowered and pulled together and Zayn says, “I could stop, y’know.  Don’t want to – “

“You’re not hurting me,” Liam replies as if he can see Zayn’s thoughts.  He writhes and wriggles beneath Zayn like he wants _more_ and Zayn’s tongue curls around a moan.

Zayn stutters a little on the next thrust and Liam’s eyes blink open wider, choking on a groan when Zayn goes still inside of him.  The pressure, his cock so thick and hard inside of Liam, swallows them and he wipes the sweat from Liam’s brow while licking at red lips.

“Tell me then,” Zayn half-demands with a grin, drawing his hips back slowly before slamming them against Liam’s arse and thighs.

“It feels, well… I feel _full_ ,” Liam pants with blush wrecking his cheeks and Zayn grins at the way Liam looks embarrassed and shocked at the same time.

“Really?”

“Yeah, and maybe you could,” Liam pauses, his soft palm against Zayn’s waist as thick fingers grip his hips, dragging him in further.  There’s a pleading sort of noise that falls across his lips before he adds, “Stay right _there_.”

Zayn nods, pressing his forehead to Liam’s, the echo of Liam’s voice – _If my red eyes don’t see you anymore. And I can’t hear you through the white noise_ – like the start of thunder across a dark sky.

“And a little harder,” Liam breathes out, his voice weak and strangled.  He bites at his lip, looks focused between their bodies rather than on Zayn’s face.  His hand draws up Zayn’s back, clinging to him, and Zayn feels the fire like a young night reaching maturity.

Zayn complies without hesitation, working his hips a little quicker, with a certain kind of firmness.  He fucks Liam until he’s convinced Liam is in love with the sound of their skin meeting, the way the bed squeaks, the heft of their breaths meeting somewhere in the abandoned middle space that keeps growing smaller and smaller.

The sheets shift down his hips when he finds a rhythm, a pace that strokes his cock inside of Liam at every angle.  He cups the nape of Liam’s neck, drags him up for a breathless kiss that last only a few beats – _Just send your heartbeat out there. To the blue ocean floor. Where they’ll find us no more_ – while slamming his cock into Liam.

Strong thighs wrap around his waist, keep him deep, and he’s sticky with sweat as he laughs into Liam’s mouth.  He licks at Liam’s teeth, fingers careful across Liam’s still healing ribs.  His nose brushes over Liam’s in the kind of affectionate way he doesn’t associate with sex but this feels like a moment.

It feels like _forever_ and he’s too caught up in the tightness of Liam’s body to fear the repercussions.

Zayn gasps against Liam’s moan, snapping his hips repeatedly until Liam’s desperate for air and fast kisses.

“D’you like that?” Zayn asks, lips against Liam’s ear.

Liam’s dull nails scratch up his back, gulping for air but it’s too thin in the room now.

“You’re so tight,” Zayn hisses, placing as much pressure as he can on Liam’s prostate until he feels Liam’s cock pulse between them, fat drops of precome sliding over his skin.  “I want to, fuck, make you feel incredible.”

“Zayn,” Liam groans, breathless.  He ruts up against Zayn, tries to match his rhythm between the sheets.

“A little harder?”

Liam nods frantically with closed eyes and his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks.

His fingers are still slick with sweat and lube when he reaches between them to create a loose sheath around Liam’s cock.  He thumbs back the foreskin, rubs at the slit until Liam’s precome makes everything slicker.  Liam digs his heels into the mattress, thrusts back against Zayn’s cock and a silent scream gets caught in his throat.

“Tell me babe,” Zayn says against his chin, smiling, “or you could show me.”

Liam’s helpless, grinding onto Zayn’s cock, trying to fuck into Zayn’s slack fist.  He squeezes absently around Zayn when Zayn’s thumb strokes the underside of the head and Zayn bows forward.  He lets Liam swivel his hips, drag that warm heat up and down Zayn’s shaft and he kisses the corner of Liam’s mouth just to feel the vibration of his moans.

“A little faster,” Zayn whispers and he’s jerking upward to meet Liam now.  He’s stroking Liam off with _resilience_ and _determination_ and Liam’s finally getting loud, losing himself on it all.

“That’s it babe.”

Liam groans, tangling free fingers in Zayn’s hair, the other ones curled around the sheets.  He tips his head back, overwhelmed, and Zayn can see the veins pulsing under his skin.  He twists his hand in that calculated move he’s done on himself a dozen times until Liam’s shaking.

“Zayn,” he whimpers, an unsteady flow of oxygen and pants leaving him before he swallows.  “I’m so close.”

“You’re so amazing,” Zayn counters, nipping at his bottom lip.  He skims his nose on Liam’s jaw, creating a tight ring around the flushed pink head of Liam’s dick before adding, “And you’re so mine, babe.  I can feel it.  The way you squeeze around me – “

Liam does, his mouth gaped as he pulses and pulls on Zayn’s cock with his stretched hole.

Zayn shivers, tasting the salty sweat on the hollow of Liam’s neck before slamming impulsively into him.

Liam comes with an achy groan, flooding Zayn’s hand, slipping between his fingers and it’s messy but beautiful.  Liam comes apart beneath him, still weakly grinding on Zayn’s cock while going tight all around Zayn.  He’s lax and spread across the sheets while Zayn keeps fucking into him, shallow thrusts that promise to echo Liam’s orgasm rather than bruise him anymore.

Fingers tangle into his hair, tug on it until Zayn’s looking into blown out pupils rather than the sweaty skin of Liam’s chest.  Swollen lips part, whisper something that sounds a lot like his name but Zayn’s not sure.

“Do it, love,” Liam pleads, face still screwed up with his softening cock throbbing between them.  “Wanna see you come.”

And Zayn does.  He slams deep, cracking off another loud groan that resides deep in Liam’s chest, and he grinds into Liam as he pulses deep inside of him.  He trembles and drags impatient kisses across Liam’s cheek as he succumbs to the pleasure and the fullness of his heart.  He shudders through the last drops, staying buried with his arms scooping Liam up and holding him close.

Lips cascade across his temple and they’re messy, sticky, slick with sweat but Zayn can’t think of anywhere else to be.

Not Bradford, not with his family. Not the hospital.

 _Just here_.

**

Mary once told him the world is an echo of clattering thunder and the roar of an electric guitar during a rock song right before a tragedy but afterwards?  It’s a calm, dead silence.  It’s quiet and wasted on mourning when really, it’s just a recovery.

It’s just a chance to finally breathe in what everything is for.

He thinks he can still hear the buzzing echo of thunder just after five in the morning – and he knows the time because an hour ago, Liam woke him for lazy kisses before he dashed off to the loo for a piss – when his phone – because Liam’s is dead and slotted somewhere between their bodies and stained sheets – vibrates over Liam’s desk.  He ignores it the first, third, and _fifth_ time but Liam groans, shoves at him, and he can’t adjust to the soft glow of the screen in the purple haze of Liam’s room.

His feet stumble over the cold carpet and Liam’s boxers are half-hanging on his hip by the time he reaches it.  His hair is a wreck, even after he twists his fingers into it, and his eyes are bleary so he can’t really make out the name or the contact photo but he knows the voice as soon as he hears it.

“Hello sunshine,” Tricia says but there’s nothing warm or sweet about her voice.

It’s _calm_.

In fact, it’s a little choked and Zayn can barely make out the sound of whimpers and medical jargon thrown around in the background.  He rubs the back of his hand at his eyes, peeking over his shoulder as Liam rolls away and curls around a pillow before he hums softly.

“Vas happenin’ mum,” he coughs out, scratching at his chest and he stretches long with bones aching and joints cracking before he catches the frown in her tone.

“Are you with Liam?”

Zayn pushes the fringe from his forehead, chancing a look over his shoulder again before replying, “Maybe.”

“ _Zayn_ ,” she sighs and there’s a few more choked noises like someone’s crying.  “Zayn, please – “

“What is it?” he asks quickly, the pulse of his heart suddenly too fast.  His hands shake and cold air skates across his skin even though it’s still spring and the air outside is probably thick with early morning heat.

He can hear her pulling in a breath, still too calm, and the world crackles like firewood when she says, “Bring him to the hospital, sunshine.  _Now_.  It’s important.”

“Something wrong babe,” Liam yawns out, sitting up on the edge of the bed with a pink cheek from resting it on Zayn’s chest all night and fingers rubbing at the nape of his neck.

“Zayn,” she hisses and he finally hears it – the burst of something electric and loud in her voice.

He swallows, searching through the darkness for jeans and a jumper and, fuck, he can’t stop the pound of his heart.  It’s terrifying and his tongue is heavy just before he stutters, “Who?  Who mummy?”

She sighs again, a sniffle piercing the phone and everything that was upright falls horizontal inside of him.

“Noah,” she finally breathes and Zayn’s knees almost give out.  He slumps down onto the bed next to Liam with a strong arm on his waist and Liam’s chin on his shoulder, craters of confusion in his eyes and worry lines across his brow.

“Zayn?”

“Come on sunshine, pull it together,” she snaps and the phone goes loose in his fingers as he tries not to think the worst – you know, every situation that slams through your head at a million miles too fast and the collision of _please don’t let it be_ burns like the buzz of a needle when the tattoo artist is shading in new ink.

“Okay,” Zayn stumbles out, nodding but she can’t see him.  She can’t see his hands shaking or the way his brow is creased or the constant heave of his chest when he tries to pull in air but it burns.

 _Breathing burns_.

She’s gone before he can ask anything and when he turns to Liam, everything inside of him stills – the calm before the storm.

Liam blinks at him a little too rapidly and his lips twitch before he asks, “It’s Noah, isn’t it?”

Zayn nods slowly, sliding his fingers against Liam’s thigh.  There’s a quiet stitched to his face and Zayn thinks of coffee, cigarettes, hands clutched in the dark, cheering for a sport he could care less for, long kisses beneath the sun, a boy in a town he wasn’t supposed to love.

“Help me find my shoes, yeah?” Liam requests and Zayn exhales just to breathe back in pain before gnawing at his bottom lip.  Liam’s so _calm_ and, fuck, there’s something biting at his eyelids and making everything glossy.

They don’t say anything else as they quickly dress but he keeps looking at Liam, waiting for the fear or worry or anxiety to finally swallow him.

Liam just breathes and slides on his trainers.

**

He manages to wake Niall from his coma-like sleep, dragging him from his Uni room into that shitty car with the rough seats and a noisy radio.  Niall doesn’t ask questions, not even when Liam slumps into the backseat with his hands moving restless on his knees and eyes on the blurred morning as Niall drives at speeds that are probably not legal but necessary.  He cranks up shitty college radio and Zayn’s not sure why he’ll forever remember the song playing – _Hold onto me as we go. As we roll down this unfamiliar road. And although this wave is stringing us along. Just know you’re not alone ‘cause I’m gonna make this place your home_ – but he knows he will, years from now.

Zayn’s not sure why he’s scared and anxious seconds before they pull up, with Niall’s fingers drumming on the steering wheel and Liam’s breathing so _loud_ in the backseat.  He’s not sure why he focuses his eyes on what Niall’s wearing – baggy joggers, a snapback, a rumpled Eagles t-shirt, remnants of Cher’s lipstick on his neck – rather than the way Liam keeps curling and unfurling his fingers or the stutter in his heart every time he tries to think _peace_ and _calm before the storm_.  His blood runs cold and that ache against his eyelids won’t give way, not even when they draw closer and Liam leans forward to clutch the back of Niall’s seat.

“I’m just gonna pull the car round and you lot can – “

Liam’s hopping out the backseat before the car can come to a complete halt at the emergency entrance and Zayn’s a few too many strides behind through the sliding doors.  He’s one hand on the small of Liam’s back, another waving over a sweet nurse he knows to mouth out the name _‘Noah Payne’_ before she’s nodding and looking solemn.  She’s looking broken and he can’t escape this feeling.

He’s known it before, never so intimately.  When his grandfather passed, when his aunts called his mum about her sister.  It’s numbing and feels like ice against the skin but it’s never been this close.

He’s never felt his heart slide up his throat so roughly or the way his legs can barely move.

The hallway on the emergency floor is so quiet except for beeping machines and the scuffle of trainers on the floor and Liam’s walking slowly like dread grips him and Zayn nudges him closer to the end of the hall with regret sinking in.  He’s stiff and trying to swallow but that’s impossible when a nurse emerges from the room first, followed by his mum.  There’s streaks on her cheek, a hand cupped over her mouth, and when he was a kid he loved to wave his fingers over a flickering flame just to feel the sharp burn of the heat.

He thinks, unceremoniously, that this burn captures him and he can’t move his hand away before his skin sizzles.

“I’m, oh God, Liam, I’m so – “

Her words never hurt more than they do when she can’t hold them on her tongue.  Common use of vocabulary and diction flees from him and he’s gripping Liam to hold him back for a moment, fingers pinching until he’s certain he’s bruised Liam’s shoulder.

Liam shrugs him off for a second, only to reach back and grab his hand before nudging through the door.

The machines are off.  The room is so cold and the fluorescent lights hung on the ceiling wash out all of the color until this room feels like the space between ache and the flood.

Karen’s whimpering with her head bowed and a trembling hand rubbing over Noah’s wrist.  Nicola’s sobbing in the corner, uncontrollable no matter how close one of the nurses hold her.  Ruth, with wet lashes and a creased mouth, flings her arms around Liam to brush tears against his neck until he soothes an arm around her waist to hold her.

“Oh, love,” Karen cries when she lifts her head and finds Liam in the archway, Zayn so close that he can feel the roll of ache up Liam’s spine.  “My God, Liam, we tried.”

Noah’s still.  Those one pink lips are blue, eyes shut with pale cheeks.  His curls fall off his face and Karen reaches up to smooth out his fuzzy eyebrows like he’ll blink cinnamon eyes open again at her touch.  He’s half under a sheet, still dressed in Winnie the Pooh pajamas and each little string that kept them tethered together feels cut.

Zayn chews at his lip and _cold_ , he feels cold.

A nurse pulls Nicola from the room when her wailing echoes off the walls and Karen shakes with a need.  His skin is like ice when Zayn traces his fingers up the back of his hand, over the hospital bracelet that was probably fastened around his wrist as a formality.  He can barely make out all of the words the doctors, his mum throws at him as he looks down at Noah.  He catches _‘dead before the ambulance made it halfway down the road’_ and _‘natural causes’_ which sounds so stupid because Noah is – _was_ – only eight years old and _‘he was such a bundle of joy’_ just before _‘his body just gave out on him.’_

Karen stutters through an explanation to no one because Liam’s huddled over Noah’s lifeless body, shaking and clutching onto him while Zayn rubs gently at his back.  She talks of them all being cuddled together in the living room for a marathon of _House_ that Nicola made them suffer through before Noah begged for more _Winnie the Pooh_ and Noah’s shallow breathing as he tried to sleep.  She sobs through talks of Noah sleeping against her side, letting out one final gasp for air before rolling off the couch and the fire that roared in him earlier dies out so quickly when she talks of trying to use CPR to revive him, using her breath to restore his.

He slumps against a wall when Geoff enters, swallowing Ruth and Karen into a hug while Liam kisses at Noah’s forehead, pushing fingers into his curls.

“I’m sorry,” Liam whispers, his voice a bit choked, faint traces of tears licking off his cheeks and wetting Noah’s ashen skin.  “I’m so sorry.  I _tried_ , buddy, I tried so hard.”

Tricia wraps herself around him, whimpers into his chest and his arms feel heavy when he tries to wrap them around her.  He _can’t_.  He merely lets her shake against him while watching Liam like he’s glass.

He’s _fresh blown glass_ and he thinks of Harry and injured ribs and that strong sense of terror that scalded his blood when Liam laid limp on the pitch.

There’s a tingle in his fingers when he tries to reach out for Liam as he escorts Ruth and Karen from the room to let his father say his last goodbyes.  They brush over Liam’s shoulder and Liam gives him a pleading look like _don’t touch_ or _I might fall apart_ and Zayn nods, drawing back to hold his mum instead.  He follows silently on uneven feet and Niall’s right there, clutching him with a sting to riverfront blue eyes that Zayn doesn’t want to remember.

He wants a high and numbness and _Bradford_.

Fuck, he wants everything this town is not now: death, memories, an uneasy love that has yet to be spoken.

Karen is curled in on herself in the waiting room, Nicola on her shoulder with red eyes and jittery fingers.  Liam’s still in his chair, rubbing at Ruth’s back until her breathing evens out.  He sniffles but tears never really come.  There’s a blank stare, eyes unfocused on the wall in front of him and Zayn thinks to crawl into his lap, suffocate him until Liam remembers how to breathe but he doesn’t.

He watches with his lip between his teeth and Niall’s fingers on his neck to remind him _this too shall pass._

He hates that saying.  It never passes.  It just numbs out, buries itself behind false hope until you deal with it and then it overwhelms you again, over and over until you can keep it at bay a little longer.

Tricia and Karen hold each other through tears and kisses and goodbyes, promises to call that probably won’t happen for hours when they’re both a little more composed.  Ruth’s huddled around Liam and he has a spare arm across Nicola’s shoulders like _support_ and _comfort_.  He blinks at Zayn, eyes a little narrow to hold something back and it’s so raw that Zayn has to look away.

When they’re just shadows down the hall and Niall’s phoning Harry and Louis, Zayn rushes in the opposite direction.  He runs with squeaky shoes on the tiles and never stops, not even for a whimpering Mary or a glassy-eyed Ellie.  He shoves through that damn emergency exit, lets the cold morning air bite at his skin as he scrambles for a cigarette.

His fingers shake and he can’t hold it.  He can’t light it when it’s between his lips and he’s going through the motions of breathing rather than sustaining a swallow of air.  His knees finally give out and he can’t help the way he screams, “ _Fuck_.”

Shoulders slump forward, the cigarette dropping into the grass, and he doesn’t mind the rocks beneath his knees if it’s just a distraction from the way he’s breaking down.  _Be strong_ doesn’t cross his mind, not with tears slicing down his cheeks and his bottom lip trembling.

He wants to be numb.

He wants to get the fuck away from this town.

He wants Liam.

**

It’s called _radio silence_ , Mary tells him after the first day.

Liam doesn’t call after he leaves the hospital and Zayn understands.  He comprehends it – the war between loss and indifference – and doesn’t try to reach across the endless galaxies of distance that separates them.  There’s no communication other than the little texts Liam sends him after the third day – the first is _im okay_ followed by _fine_ and finally _alive_ – and Zayn suffers through it with little tears aching at the back of his eyelids until he can hide away for a smoke.

He takes up extra shifts at the hospital rather than drowning in the four walls of his room but he volunteers at the gift shop downstairs rather than the pediatric wing and his mum never bothers him about it.  He barrels through three cigarettes every four hours and drinks too much coffee and he thinks it should be diagnosed as _insomnia_ after the first two days without sleep until he passes out in the utility closet between shifts just to stop his mind from racing.  Mary gives him that sympathetic look that he doesn’t deserve because it’s not _his_ nephew who died.  It’s not him losing half of himself – except it is.

And it scares him when he admits, quietly, to Danny over the phone that Liam is very much his other half.

He sees Karen at the hospital too frequently.  Amongst those dead halls upstairs when he takes the lift to bring his mum some coffee and a small embrace because he’s teetering on that in-between she warned him about – _close but not too close_.  She’s avoiding talking about that attachment she cautioned him about, falling in love with a patient when they’re just here for healing – not fondness.

Karen’s always deep hugs, swallowing him in her small arms with tears wetting his lavender scrubs, and he smiles into her hair with a warm hand against her back just to steady her.  She’s kisses to the cheeks with his mum in the background, smiling around the lip of a cup of hot coffee and damp eyelashes.

“You mum was so wonderful with him,” Karen says almost always, while clutching Tricia’s hand, Zayn’s too.  “My family will forever be grateful.”

Zayn nods, smirking, trying to shove down that pinprick ache in his chest.

“And Liam,” she sighs, bottom lip trembling.  She looks away from Tricia, sketches of red in her eyes as she looks on Zayn before adding, “I love you, Zayn, honestly.  He won’t say it but he misses you terribly and I don’t know how he’s doing this.  School and practice and helping with the funeral but, Christ, young man he’s so incredibly fond of you.  Our entire family is but _Liam_ – “

He swallows and it’s a brick thrown at his chest, hollowing everything out.

“ – he just thinks the world of you,” she finishes with a shaky voice and fingers gripping Zayn’s too tightly.  “Please, keep him in your prayers and, I don’t know, don’t let him go.  I know he wouldn’t want that.”

He huffs through two cigarettes after she leaves, leaning against that brick wall outside with his head tipped back and eyes watching the translucent clouds roll over a perfect blue sky – the kind of sky Noah would love and dance under.  His mum joins him, not for the smoke but for the sharp air that makes her eyes come alive and those tears staining her cheeks dry quickly under the warmth.

She’s quiet, rubbing at his hip, humming quietly to something so vague but so familiar – _Settle down, it’ll all be clear. Don’t pay no mind to the demons; they fill you with fear_ – and he wishes for Niall and strong coffee and Harry’s laughter in his ear.

He scrubs the back of his hand along his eyes until the tears stick to his skin and clump his eyelashes and she smiles at him like _love_ is on the edge of her tongue.  She pats his shoulder, reassuring and gentle, before waving off the smoke.

“They’re not good for you,” she warns but there’s no strife in her voice.  There’s a gentle smile on her lips before she slides away.

He laughs, bitter and acidic, and Liam’s never been this far before.  His foot stubs out the cigarette and he exhales the last bit of smoke with – _The trouble, it might drag you down. If you get lost, you can always be found_ – still buzzing through his head.

**

“You’ve got to come, man.”

He’s _exhausted_.  He’s tired is what he is and he’s ditched off one of his double shifts at the hospital for coffee with Louis at that one shop just off the end of campus.  And everything tastes foreign on his tongue, even the sweet pastries Louis buys as a peace offering for barking at him for not calling Liam all week.  He thinks it’s Louis’ way of dealing with Liam’s lack of motivation or slumped shoulders or missed kicks at practice that sends the ball sailing out of bounds rather than towards the goal.

He’s got a lit cigarette burning away in the ashtray as they sit on the patio with the wind sweeping a gentle breeze and he’s fumbling with half a fuck to give with Louis narrowing his eyes so viciously at him.

“I don’t,” Zayn says flatly, waving him off to sip at his coffee – he misses tea hinted with cinnamon and the softness of Liam’s sheets against his skin.

Louis snorts, leaning on the table.  “You don’t want me cross with you, Malik.”

Zayn rolls his eyes immediately, circling the rim of his cup with his index finger.  “I don’t want you at all.  You’re a little shit and a bit too attached to Harry for me.”

Louis leans back with a smile, his expression turning affectionate under the pink and purple sky above.

“I’ve missed you, massively,” Louis admits, kicking at Zayn under the table.  “And if you tell that little elf Niall that, I will surely rip your dick off.”

Zayn winces, his nose wrinkling at Louis.  “You’re sick.”

“And so is my aim, trust me, Malik,” Louis warns in an almost playful tone and it wouldn’t be believable if it were anyone other than Louis Tomlinson.

Zayn sits up a little straighter, sighing.  “He wouldn’t want me there.”

A frown catches the rim of Louis lips before he’s shaking his head.  He knocks the fringe from his forehead and swallows down a large gulp of tea.

“You’re so daft.”

“Fuck off,” Zayn hisses and his fingers curl around his cup with a little too much intention.  He puts out his fag, considers lighting another one while Louis’ fingers tap along the edge of the table.

He’s not angry with Louis, not really.  It’s just – he misses Liam.  He hates that.  He hates the way this town crawled under his skin and how his mum is giving him permission to return to Bradford now.  Something about him paying his dues and the _‘you’re free to go,’_ she adds that makes him sick and weak and when he dreams, he dreams of a child lying across a cold hospital bed with blue lips, closed eyes and he’ll never understand why some people say _‘he’s in a better place now’_ because Zayn always thought right here, with Liam, was the best place Noah could be.

Louis’ got fresh ink across his forearm and Zayn uses it as a distraction not to think but he fails.  He breathes in air wrecked with fresh coffee and too much honey in Louis’ tea and the aromatic horror of University kids.  He hunches up his shoulders, curves his fingers around the edge of his phone and Louis rests fingers over his knuckles, tapping politely.

“You’ll come to the funeral,” Louis tells him, calm and unnerving when those blue eyes look so damn affectionate.

“Lou, you don’t – “

“Shut it,” Louis laughs with his thumb sliding beneath Zayn’s palm just to forge the connection deeper.  “We all want you there.  He does too, the idiot.”

Zayn sighs, lungs craving more nicotine and he barely hears Louis’ _‘I need you there’_ before he looks away, the streets so empty but so full of things he wants to forget.

**

It’s unnecessarily ironic on the day of the funeral that the sun sits high in the sky, the clouds lose that tinge of silver, and the birds shift through the breeze like surfers on the break of a wave.

He spends fifteen minutes in the back of the car, wedged between Safaa and Waliyha, fiddling with his suit until he unfastens the top button and it feels a little less restricting.  Waliyha picks at his hair until it stands upright and Safaa hums Katy Perry while looking out tinted windows at the nearby lake.  He swallows, hard, when he looks up front and catches Yasser holding Tricia’s hand over the armrest, fingers twined like he’s her oxygen and she’s breathing him in again.  It coils something awful around his stomach and Waliyha’s in his head – _suffocation_.

The dirt road leading up the grassy lawn littered with headstones and a small crowd under a tent feels like the longest walk he’s never wanted to take.  His mum is curled under his baba, clenching a handkerchief and Waliyha’s clutching Safaa’s hand, both with wide eyes and confusion too apparent.  He meets Niall and Harry halfway, laughing into their hugs while patting their backs like a _finally_ and _never go away_.  Louis scrubs away tears with the heel of his hand, his nose red before nodding at him and Zayn’s mouth lifts in the most painful curl of a smile he’s ever had to hold.  They’re all draped in black suits, black ties hanging from the collar of their Oxfords, and Niall wears a black snapback in solidarity rather than formality.

“Leemo hasn’t left his sisters’ sides,” Niall tells him as they move off to the side, Niall snatching the cigarette from between Zayn’s fingers to slide it behind his ears.  “For later, when you buy me a cuppa and I tell you all about how I’m gonna marry that Cher one day.”

Zayn smiles at him, mouth stretched and eyes crinkling.  “Idiot,” he says before slinging an arm around his wide shoulders.

He eyes Harry as he coils possessive arms around Louis’ waist, his chin hooked on Louis’ shoulders, and the black attire does little to hide the love that’s set afire between them.  He ducks his head, watches pink flood Harry’s cheeks when he catches Zayn staring and they smile at each other like _I know_.

Andy and Maz are huddled in the procession line, offering him small waves and simple nods of acknowledgement.  Geoff is chatting up the priest, fumbling through a smile even though his eyes are stained with thick tears.  Karen is hugging tightly onto Tricia and Zayn barely missed the part where she cut through the lawn to embrace Liam’s mum.  Ruth looks weak and pale, Nicola burying half her face in a shoulder and _Liam_.

He’s wearing that same blank expression from the hospital.  His suit fits like a well-worn glove, his feet shuffling in the grass like he can’t get relaxed.  He’s forgone the suit jacket, probably hanging off the back of one of the fold up chairs around the closed casket, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the sun catching hints of _‘Everything I ever wanted…’_ as Liam squeezes Nicola closer.  His jaw is free of stubble and Zayn smiles, wonders if he shaved it off properly himself.  His eyes are an autumn brown, heavy circles beneath them and Zayn’s never seen the skin of his neck so free of marks that he always leaves behind after sweaty sex and languid kisses in the dark.

Everyone floods under the small tarp to find seats and he lingers off to the side with his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers.  The sun beats thick against the back of his neck and his eyes trace over the kaleidoscope of wrecked faces and tear-heavy eyes.  Harry angles his arm around the back of Louis’ chair while Niall leads Cher through the row behind them, sitting on the edge of his chair like he’s ready to bolt.  Andy kisses his fist before tapping the rim of the casket, eyes already soaked and Maz clutches his shoulder before he can lose it right there in front of everyone.  Zayn blinks at that itch in his eyes, turns his head away and tries to swallow the ache behind his tongue and under his teeth.

Karen lines up with Geoff, arms looped together like a wedding rather than a death.  Nicola stands with Ruth, following their parents in on shaky heels and bowed heads, sobbing as quietly as possible.

Liam is last and his hesitation weighs in layers over his shoulders.  He’s frozen, eyeing his family with wide, helpless eyes.  The _bravery_ has faded, electric strength now just a dim flickering light and he’s quivering.  Thick, round tears finally pass his lashes and his nose turns an awful pink that contrasts miserably against the pale flush of his cheeks.

It’s overwhelming – the instinct, the _need_.  He crosses over too many steps and rushes up to Liam.  He stands next to him and this is what Mary means – the silence, the calm, the quiet.  He twines his fingers with Liam’s, fills the open spaces until something sparks familiar between them.

Liam looks down at their hands, clutching his bottom lip with his teeth.  The shaking subsides but something weak is whimpered from the back of his throat when he glances at Zayn.  He can’t speak with wide, red eyes and Zayn catches those tears with his free thumb, smiling at Liam.

“I’ll walk with you, babe,” Zayn says, leaning in.  Liam meets him halfway, filling the void and they’re rocking on their heels.  He rubs away the rest of the tears from Liam’s cheeks before adding, “I won’t leave you.”

Something strides over Liam’s face – the hollow of relief – before he nods and smiles back.  He squeezes Zayn’s hand for reassurance, for all the things he can’t say.

“I don’t want to do this,” Liam stutters out, each word broken and caught on a wet hitch of breath.

Zayn strokes his thumb down Liam’s cheek, settles into the heat again, nods.

“I _can’t_ do this.”

Zayn smiles, watching the pull of Liam’s teeth against his bottom lip.

“I hate goodbyes,” Liam sighs, his voice still rolled thick with ache.

“I’ll help you,” he promises, tugging on Liam’s hand.

Hesitance cracks just at the edge and Zayn leads Lim into the tent.  He helps Liam into his chair, Andy shuffling over to let Zayn sit with him.  Liam bows his head, swallowing a sob when Ruth clutches his free hand and Zayn refuses to let Liam go.  He holds his hand and sighs out a thick smile when Liam rests his head on Zayn’s shoulder for the duration of the funeral, mumbling _thank you’s_ and _I’d say it if I could_.

Zayn knows.

Those three words sit heavy in the back of his throat.  Three words, eight letters, three syllables, a stretch of something he’s never known.

**

It takes him days to wear off the heaviness of watching them lower Noah into the ground or the way Karen’s hugs hurt a little more afterwards or the way his mum stops shoving University applications at him and offers him a bus ticket back to Bradford instead, just in case.  He wastes away at the hospital sketching and pretending the world is still turning round and round when it feels like it stopped.  It feels like this whole town is frozen and nothing really moves.

Just his heart, in that uncomfortable pattern it did when he first moved here.

Liam’s phone calls are a little more frequent, if not short.  He’s still trying to stretch his tongue around words and things to say but Zayn plays on an understanding and they both believe the lie until Zayn doesn’t shuffle around on his bed for hours waiting for just a text, a stupid emoticon that he’ll laugh at before shoving his phone under his pillow.  He thinks of an exit strategy that never comes together because Waliyha keeps begging him to stay and Louis frowns when Harry mentions it and Niall’s shoving through his door every morning just to drag him around town, little hints at how wonderful this place is just to convince Zayn without saying it aloud.

He thinks _fond_ is such an understatement when it comes to this stupid boy from Mullingar with the big, blue eyes and the kind of crooked smile you hate until you sort of love it.

Harry and Niall beg him for one last game, Liam’s first since the injury, and Zayn thinks it’s a horrible idea.  He thinks _clean break_ is something to strive for but he can’t quite pack up his things and his mum stuffs a job application for the hospital with an already filled out form for University under his door that morning and he sits in the windowsill of his room smoking through three cigarettes with a smile and a _possibility_ hanging off the roof of his mouth.

The stadium is rocking and swaying with the kind of electric buzz he’s missed and Harry drags him to a pair of seats just off the sidelines of the pitch, closest to the team and even closer to where he knows Liam sits on the bench when he’s not in play.  It’s crowded – like always – but it’s not that claustrophobic feeling he remembers from the first game.  It’s _alive_ and he smiles at the way the town’s people, young and old with their children on their shoulders and applause so loud it shakes the seats, keep their eyes on the green grass and the single ball in the middle of the field.

The Block Party is denser, huddled together on the other half of the stadium.  They crowd rows and rows of seats with cutouts of their favorite players and they’re all wearing black shirts with _seventy-nine_ streaked across them.  Zayn curls his hands in his lap and grins at Niall, black snapback and gold paint slashed across his cheeks and the kind of roar that echoes through every inch of the stadium.  It sets something calm down his spine until the teams march onto the field and he licks at his lips, Harry’s hand finding his like he needs _comfort_ and _patience_ to ease the slide of something awful down his throat.

Louis rushes the field with Andy to his left, Maz to his right, waving to the crowd like a hero and a beauty queen and everything that aches _ego_ until he looks across the pitch to Harry.  His eyes light up when Harry blows him a kiss and Harry leans into Zayn with a _‘we’re in love, that twit and I’_ that fumbles a smile to Zayn’s lips.  It’s a medicated feeling when Louis nods at him, quirked up grin like mischief and _danger_ that Zayn clings to and they flip each off with a laugh and a silent promise of coffee and arguments at another time.

“He really likes you,” Harry says above the thunder of the crowd and Zayn snorts, doesn’t say he does too but he feels it in the center of his chest.

He squeezes Harry’s hand back, fingers pinching out a _one-four-three_ to Harry’s knuckles and Harry smiles wide because they both know what it means.

Liam’s out last with that shy, awkward wave, his head ducked, and his hair a little longer on the crown of his head.  He cups the nape of his neck, muscles flexing beneath his tan skin and there’s a _‘NOAH’_ painted gold across his bicep, half-hidden by the sleeve of his kit.  He kicks at loose grass and stretches his legs until the echo of the attendants grows louder, higher, just for him.

Zayn’s ears perk up when the Block Party goes silent go a second, humming the opening lines of _‘Winnie the Pooh’_ and Liam stares up at them in awe.  He’s wide-eyed, mouth gone slack, and Louis tumbles up behind him to wrap an arm around his neck and rest his chin on Liam’s broad shoulder.

He swallows, standing with Harry with sweaty hands dragging over the denim he’s wearing and the Block Party claps loudly for Liam, adoration never so tangible as it is in that moment.

Instead of a _‘Payno smash!’_ there’s a thunder of _‘Leeyum’_ that’s stretched out from the Block Party, acutely like Noah, and Liam leans into Louis’ touch like he needs an anchor.

Zayn remembers being that, for Liam.  He wonders, in a long breath and fingers tangled with Harry’s for strength, fuck he _needs_ that, if he could ever be that again.

“You should know,” Harry says in an almost teasing tone but his eyes are so fucking honest, the way Niall’s are when he talks about Cher or when Louis can’t help but smile at the mention of Harry’s name, “he’s in love with you.  Madly, dude.  If there were a word to describe it, I’d use it but you’re far more versed in pretty language while I just fuck through a good thing.”

Zayn smiles, tries _irrevocably_ and _impossibly_ and _understated_ on his tongue but none of them feel right.  None of them feel true.  None of them fit like Liam does, under his skin and along his heart, between the spaces of his ribs and against the endless nerves he hasn’t ever used.

After the teams split across the field for warm-ups and footballs are kicked back and forth for minutes, Niall stands in the sea of black shirts and courageous smiles.  “Thank you Liam,” he chants, hands cupped over his mouth and Andy stops, Maz freezes, and Liam looks up from the bench where he’s sipping green Gatorade and letting the coaches chat him up.

There’s a few whistles, proud parents throwing a fist in the air, a few University girls squealing before the chant – harmonic and anthem-like and _pulsing_ – builds like a crescendo.  The acoustics catch their voices and pink blush, half-lidded eyes, and a stretched smile remind Zayn how truly beautiful Liam is.

“Fucking incredible,” Harry says before Zayn can and he leans into the crook of Harry’s arm, grinning.

The gap between noise and Liam stepping back onto the pitch feels hollowing.  It’s not until Louis runs up to him, coiling an arm around Liam’s neck again to turn him that their eyes meet.  He doesn’t think it’s instant – this is not a storybook love or the kind of thing you see in cheesy films – but his lips quirk and Liam stares at him like he’s halfway home.

Like Harry’s words are true and Zayn suffocates for a second on how bad he wants them to be.

Liam’s running across the grass, full sprint, ducking past coaches and assistants and teammates and over the bench to the railing.  He’s bright eyes, loose pink lips, crinkles around the edges, cheeks a faint rose.  He’s reaching out and Harry’s got a hand to the small of Zayn’s back, shoving him forward with a smirk that’s so reminiscent of Louis it scares him.

He’s tugged over the railing by strong arms and Liam fists a hand into his shirt, replaces Harry’s fingers on the small of his back and they’re pressed so close together it feels like _serenity_.

Liam blinks at him, tilting his head – and Zayn doesn’t think about that first day or that first kiss or _‘see I can be bad too’_ after their lips parted – to admire Zayn.  It shivers down his spine, Liam’s fingers chasing the feeling and his head is clouded just before Liam leans in.

It’s one of those epic moments that someone will mention to his children – _their children_ , he thinks with a smile – with Liam’s lips against his, standing on the grass of the pitch and the echo of chants surrounding them.  He thinks he can hear Harry above them all with his _‘just fuck already’_ and Liam’s tongue slips into his mouth like a plea that Zayn counters with sharp teeth and a grin.  He kisses back with a hand folded around the back of Liam’s neck and the taste of chocolate and mint on Liam’s tongue.

Liam’s fingers find his hair, a hand pressed to Zayn’s hip and Zayn etches out his feelings with his lips rather than words.  It’s almost dirty until it’s not and that knot in Zayn’s stomach snaps for the warm touches Liam provides and the press of his lips so soft and catalogued.

“I love you,” Zayn says before the noise dies down and before Louis can kick a ball in their direction.

Liam smiles against his mouth, offers another chaste kiss before mouthing out, _‘I love you more, you idiot.’_

Zayn laughs and floats his fingers up the inside of Liam’s arm until he can spot new ink from the corner of his eye.  He arches an eyebrow before turning Liam’s arm over, chewing a corner of his lip while his thumb presses to the long feather stretched up Liam’s skin.

“For Noah,” Liam whispers to his temple and Zayn tips his head up for another breathy kiss that fades off before he’s ready.  “He was my – my angel, Zayn, my sweet angel.”

Zayn thumbs at the _‘I figured it out…’_ that’s gliding horizontally toward the tip of the feather and Liam ducks his head, shy and nervous and so _young_.

“For you,” he adds with a heavy tongue and lowered eyes.  He jerks Zayn closer, hips pressed together, the knock of their hearts counting out _one, two, three_.  He licks his lips and Zayn wonders if he can taste the smoke and coffee from Zayn’s mouth before he adds, “Because you won’t ever leave me.  I figured that out.”

Zayn smiles and leans in.  He soaks in the fresh air and the way his town settles around him.  He presses his mouth to Liam’s, muffling the rest of Liam’s words that probably won’t be poetic or spiritual or even meaningful, not when three words were enough.

And he doesn’t mind this town or the hospital or the little boy he had to let go.

He doesn’t crave coffee or a cigarette or Bradford, not anymore.

“I love you,” he says against Liam’s lips, to the glory and the roar of the crowd and the steady smiles licked out on Harry and Louis’ faces, the curl of something bright in Niall’s expression.  He plays the words on repeat until they ache over his tongue and he fawns over the attention Liam’s eyes give him, the soft curl of his lips.

Liam smiles against his mouth, fingers riding the back of his skull and his free arm holding Zayn to him and he sort of loves this town.

No, he loves _Liam_ and, in these arms, he knows _home_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said, I wanted to write something autobiographical, so I'm sorry if I alienated any of the readers with the length or the plot or it being horribly slow and boring. I just wanted to write this one fic for _me_ and I hope that's not all bad. But if you survived reading this, cheers to you!
> 
> Forgive me for all of the flaws -- I've never volunteered at a hospital or gone to a British University or kept up with football (I borrowed _redshirt_ and _Block Party_ and most of the sports stuff from volleyball) but I've been in love and lost a nephew. Yeah.
> 
> I read all comments/kudos on here and if you want to reach out to me, here's my [Tumblr](http://jmcats.tumblr.com) :) xx
> 
> To Julian ('98 - '10) -- I miss you and you were definitely _my angel_. I can't watch Winnie the Pooh or look at toy trains without thinking of you. This is for _you_ JuJu.


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